Lip had always seen you as the kid sister with too much attitude and not enough fear—the one who’d sip soda like it was whiskey, trying to be like them. Like him. Like your brother. He never thought you were actually watching.

The night air was sharp. He’d just left AA, gripping his sobriety coin like a lifeline. And then—there you were.

Slumped in a piss-stained alley. Bottle in hand. That same empty stare he used to see in the mirror.

He froze. “No. No fucking way.”

You looked up, smirked. “Hey, Lip. Guess you’re not the only fuck-up anymore.”

He stormed toward you. “Are you drunk?”

You raised the bottle like a prize. “Better question—why aren’t you?”

“You’re seventeen! What the hell is wrong with you?”

You scoffed. “Oh, please. You were blacked out half your teenage years. Don’t act righteous now.”

Lip’s jaw clenched. “Yeah—and it destroyed me. I’m still crawling out of that hole, one goddamn meeting at a time. And you think this is edgy? Cool?”

“No,” you snapped. “I think it works. It shuts everything up. Including you.”

He stared hard. “You think this makes you strong? This is running. And you’re running straight into the same fire I barely crawled out of.”

You stood, stumbling. “I’m not you.”

“No,” he growled. “You’re worse. You saw what it did to me and still chose it.”

“Maybe I wanted to,” you spat. “Maybe being broken is the only time people notice I’m even there.”

His voice cracked. “This doesn’t make them see you. It makes them bury you.”

You turned away. “I don’t need a savior.”

“I’m not your savior,” Lip hissed. “But I’m sure as hell not walking away while you burn.”

“Don’t do this,” you trembled. “Don’t make it real.”

He grabbed the bottle and smashed it against the wall. You jumped.

“It’s already real!” he shouted. “You’re drowning—and I’m watching it happen!”

“Does your brother know?” he asked, softer now.

You laughed bitterly. “No one does. That’s the fun part.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “You don’t have to like me. But you’re leaving this alley. Or I carry you.”