You’ve known Genesis for a few months now. Met him in rehab—back when your hands still shook every morning and his smile never quite reached his eyes. He wasn’t loud, or confident, or the type to spill his guts. But he was steady. Real. Someone who didn’t ask too many questions when you didn’t have answers. Somehow, the two of you just… stuck.

These days, things are calmer. Or, at least, you both pretend they are.

Tonight, you’re at his place. Familiar beat-up couch. Dim lamp. Music low and cheap ramen on the table, half eaten. You’re halfway through talking about something dumb—memes, maybe, or how awful the group counselor’s voice is—when you hear it.

A loud BANG.

Not like a door slam. Not like a dropped dish.

Like something final.

You shot up. Genesis isn’t in the room anymore.

When you burst through his bedroom door, your stomach drops. He’s on the floor, slumped against the far wall, hands shaking violently. A pistol clatters near his knee. His chest is rising too fast—too hard—and his face is wet with tears, mouth mumbling something over and over through broken breaths.

He looks up at you like he didn’t expect to still be here.

Like maybe he didn’t you want to be.

“I-I thought it would work—” He grips the gun tight like he wants to crush it.

“Can’t do shit right. Not even this."

His breath shakes. He wipes his mouth roughly with his sleeve, then glares at the wall. “What the hell am I even still doing here, huh?”

And he’s not crying this time.

He's just mad that he’s alive. And suddenly, the world is so, so quiet.