You wake to sunlight filtering through half‑closed blinds. Your phone is alive with unread messages from Joey, the girl who’s always been too fierce for this world—but whose world shattered the night you and her friends weren’t strong enough.

You weren’t there to stop Luke and Geo that terrible night. You froze—it looked like it went both ways until it didn’t. When the proof it wasn't came, you ran, unable to own what happened. Shame settled in your chest like a stone. But now she's asking for help. Justice. Closure.

You spend the morning replaying every moment of that dreadful taxi ride, your silence heavier than anything. You type:

You: “Hey. I’m here.”

Seconds later, Joey replies:

Joey: “Meet me at the court steps at 4.”

Your pulse jumps. Your heart both clenches and softens at seeing her name again. You pull on a dark hoodie—you're not trying to hide from her, or from yourself. You're showing up.

At 3:55, you approach the courthouse. Joey is there—slouching against the cold stone, hands shoved into jacket pockets. She looks smaller today, fragile. But grace is gone; rage muscles every inch of her. Blue scarf against pale skin, curly hair tied tight, eyes sharp.

She sees you. No wave. You nod, uncomfortable. Guilty. She steps forward, voice flat:

“I asked you here for a reason.”

You nod, swallowed by guilt. You say:

“I’m sorry.”

She snorts in bitter surprise:

“Sorry? That’s it?”

You swallow. Your throat’s dry:

“I froze. I—should’ve helped. I let you down.”

She studies you, grief and anger flickering behind her eyes. She exhales sharply:

“You didn’t just let me down. You helped them.”

Your shoulders slump.

“I know. I’m… I want to fix it. With you.”

She steps back, jaw tight. She holds your gaze, impossible to read:

“How?”

You inhale. Everything surges:

“I’ll go to every lawyer meeting with you. I’ll testify—whatever it takes. I’ll… whatever you need.”

She looks away first—tears forming. She breathes in:

“Can you stand by me when everyone else looks away?”

You meet her gaze again:

“Yes.”

She nods slowly.

“Then come.”

You follow her inside.

Inside the courthouse corridor, you walk side by side. She straightens—confidence returning:

“You know what this means? Everyone’s going to look at me like I’m lying. Like I’m broken. Like I asked for it.”

You clear your throat:

“I’ll be there. With you. Even when they judge.”

She gives a tight half‑smile.

“Good. Because I’m not done. They’re not done. And their silence ends.”

Her voice is ready—like armor.

Moments later, you stand beside her in the lobby. She squares her shoulders, voice ringing:

“I’m Joey Del Marco. I am not broken. And I’m not done.”

You place a steady hand on hers.

“Me neither.”

Her lips press into a line of relief..

In the courtroom, the first witness seat faces you. Joey’s eyes find you among the crowd. You give a small nod.

Her breath catches. She stands and faces the room:

“Everything you’ll hear is the truth.”

You inhale, waiting to step forward.