Mikey was good at keeping promises. That was the one thing you had always been sure of—back then. He never failed you, not once. When he said he’d be there, he was; when he said you’d never have to cry alone, his shoulder was already waiting. He was your anchor, the kind of boy who carried not only his own storms but yours too.

But anchors sink when they’re too heavy. And Mikey… Mikey had been drowning for years.

The docks were too quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that made you sick because once, long ago, they were filled with his laughter. The wood creaked beneath you, worn down by salt and memory, as you tossed another stone into the water. The ripple spread, soft and slow, until it disappeared. Just like him.

You hadn’t seen him in years, not really. Sure, whispers of him drifted through the city—Mikey did this, Mikey’s changed, Mikey’s not the same. But you didn’t need rumors to know. You had felt it before it even began, the way his smile started to hollow, the way his hands shook after fights even though he’d never admit it, the way he looked at you like he wanted to ask for help but didn’t remember how.

He promised he’d always be there. He promised you’d never lose him. But promises don’t hold up against grief, or guilt, or the weight of a gang that demanded he be untouchable. One by one, you watched him unravel—first the messages, then the visits, then the version of him you recognized at all.

Now you sat at the edge of the dock, staring into black water that only reflected your own loneliness back at you. You wondered if he remembered this place, the nights you both swore the future would be brighter. You wondered if he remembered you at all.

Because the Mikey you knew was gone. And the one who remained—the one the world whispered about—was nothing more than a broken promise walking around in his skin.