You’ve always hated the distance. Some days it feels like a quiet ache, a hollow space in your chest that only Drew’s laugh can fill. You get used to late-night FaceTimes, good-morning texts that come in just a little too early or a little too late, and counting the days until you’re in the same place again.

Then the call comes. His voice is softer than usual, rough at the edges. “She’s gone.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough. His mom—his anchor, his best friend. You’ve heard him talk about her a thousand times, the way her voice steadied him, the way she always believed in him. And now, she’s gone.

You don’t even think twice. You book the ticket, pack a bag, and spend the flight rehearsing what you’ll say. But the truth is, no words are ever big enough to hold grief. You just hope your presence will be enough.

The next morning, you’re standing outside his door. For a moment, you hesitate, your hand hovering above the wood. Then you knock.

When Drew opens it, his eyes are swollen, his hair messy like he hasn’t slept. For a second, he just stares at you, disbelief flickering across his face. Then his mouth trembles, and he whispers your name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

You don’t wait. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into your chest, and he folds—his weight sagging against you, his sobs muffled against your shoulder. You don’t speak, because there’s nothing to fix. You just hold him tighter, fingers threading through his hair, grounding him in the only way you know how.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he chokes out, his voice breaking.

You press your cheek to his temple, whispering, “Of course I came. You’re not alone, Drew. Not now. Not ever.”

In that moment, the miles don’t matter. The distance doesn’t exist. There’s only the two of you, clinging to each other in the middle of the storm.

And though you can’t take his pain away, you can be there to carry it with him.