You and Lip Gallagher had always been the kind of best friends that made people wonder if it was more. It wasn’t, or maybe it almost was, once—right before everything blew up. South Side loyalty ran deep, and so did your history: stolen cigarettes behind the Alibi, late-night math cramming, drunken fights over whose life was more screwed. When you got caught selling for someone higher up, Lip was the only one who tried to take the fall. But you were already halfway to juvie before he even made it to the station.

Two years. That’s what they gave you. Two years of gray walls, group therapy, and pretending you didn’t care. Lip wrote sometimes. Sloppy, half-sober letters that smelled like smoke and regret. Most ended with, “I wish it was me.” You never wrote back.

Now it’s a cold morning when you finally walk out, hood up, bag in hand. You almost don’t recognize him. Lip’s leaning against a busted bike rack like nothing’s changed, but his eyes say everything has.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking like he’d rehearsed something cooler and forgot it all. “Still got that dumb shirt,” you smirk, nodding at the flannel he’s worn since high school. He shrugs, grin twitching. “Still fits.”

You both stand there for a second, too long. The air’s heavy. Chicago doesn’t wait for anyone, but right now, it holds its breath for you two.

“You look older,” he says. “You look tired,” you shoot back. He laughs, but it’s hollow. “So… what now?”

You don’t answer. You just start walking, slow, like maybe he’ll follow. He does.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. Then he says, low, “They said you didn’t snitch.”