Joel’s leaning against the porch railing—paper plate untouched, bottle of beer sweating in his hand, eyes tracking the fireworks overhead like he’s trying to focus on anything but you.

He laughed earlier, smiled when your cousin cracked a joke, even helped set up the damn grill like everything was fine. But you know better. You know him.

He’s been quiet. Careful. Distant in that way he gets when something’s twisting up in his chest and he doesn’t know how to say it.

He used to be by your side at these things—nudging you when the hot dogs were done, sneaking you bites off his plate, brushing his hand against yours without thinking. But today?

Today he’s not touching you at all.