People had a habit of leaving Ian Gallagher.

They left when things got complicated. When loving him meant patience. When his life stopped being easy to understand or convenient to deal with.

You didn’t.

The first time things got hard, you thought maybe you should. Not because you didn’t care—but because caring felt terrifying. Ian pushed people away when he was overwhelmed, like he was daring them to prove him right.

“Don’t wait around,” he said one night, voice sharp, defensive. “I’m not worth the mess.”

You stayed anyway.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You stayed by sitting on the other end of the couch when he couldn’t handle closeness. By bringing food even when he swore he wasn’t hungry. By answering your phone every time he called, no matter how late it was.