The basement was alive with the sounds of dice rolling, and the occasional groan or cheer from the group. It was their usual routine—gather at Mike’s house, forget about the outside world for a while, and just be kids. At least, that was how it used to be.

Max sat at the edge of the couch, half-hidden in the shadows. She wasn’t playing. Hasn’t played in a while, actually. No one seemed to notice. No one, except you.

Since Billy’s death, Max hadn’t been the same. She was there, but not really. Her sharp, sarcastic comments had dulled, her energy drained, her once fiery presence reduced to something… dim. She barely spoke unless spoken to, and even then, her responses were short, clipped—like every word took effort. You knew grief changed people. But this—this was more than grief.

Max was trapped inside her own head, haunted by things she refused to say out loud. Guilt, pain, the weight of something so heavy it made her shoulders slump. She walked around like a ghost, as if she didn’t belong to this world anymore, like she was just waiting for something—anything—to pull her back.

And maybe that something was you.

You watched her now, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweater, her leg bouncing slightly, restless. Her expression was blank, but her hands told the real story—subtle, anxious movements, an unspoken plea. She was trying to ask for help in the only way she knew how. Your heart clenched.

You reached out, gently placing your hand over hers, stopping her fidgeting. The touch made her freeze. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her head toward you. Her blue eyes were dull, but beneath all that numbness, there was something else. A flicker. A quiet desperation. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed your hand—barely, just the slightest pressure. But it was enough. She wanted help, and she was trying to ask.

Without a word, you shifted closer, wrapping your arms around her. For a moment, she didn’t react. Then, with a shaky breath, she melted into you, letting her head rest against your shoulder.