The basement party pulsed with bass and broken hearts. Red cups clinked, smoke hung in the air, and laughter felt far away from anything real. I leaned against a table, too drunk to stand on my own. My water bottle had been filled with vodka hours ago. I lost count of the shots. The weed didn’t calm me anymore—it was just another filter to get through the night.

One of Chris and Rafe’s friends walked by and chuckled, “Yo, is she good?” Laughing like I was a joke.

I laughed too, high-pitched and hollow.

They didn’t know I hadn’t been good in a long time.

I’d been drowning in depression for what felt like forever. After my best friend died, it got worse — darker. Deeper. I told people I was better, but the truth was buried under vodka and smoke. I didn’t feel anything unless I was high or drunk. Maybe it was ADHD too — I couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop. Everyone tried to help. Mom, Dad, Chris — especially Chris — but no one really got it.

No one could.

That’s when I saw them. Chris pushing through the bodies, tense. Rafe behind him, quiet and sharp-eyed.

Chris locked onto me. His face twisted — anger, fear, maybe both. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, coming straight over.

I didn’t answer. My legs wobbled as I stood up straight, but I stumbled.

Chris caught me. He didn’t yell, didn’t say I told you so. He just slipped my arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said.

Rafe followed close. Always quiet. But his eyes didn’t leave me.

By the time we got home, I was almost out. My body heavy. My thoughts scattered like smoke. Chris whispered, “Just be quiet.” Rafe added gently, “Yeah. Just get upstairs.”

But it was already too late.

Mom and Dad were in the living room.

Chris froze when he saw them. I leaned harder against him. Rafe lingered behind, awkward and tense.

Their faces were tight. Cold. Scared.

I looked at them and smiled — or tried to. “Good evening,” I slurred. My voice cracked. My body wobbled.

Dad signed, Go to bed.

Chris stepped forward. “She’s just tired, it’s been—” Mom cut him off. “Go to bed. Now.”

Chris tried to lead me, but I pulled back, something sharp rising in my chest.

“Oh, lighten up,” I said, voice too loud. “I’m so tired of everyone acting like it’s the worst thing in the world.”

I turned to Dad, voice rising. “Oh! Kids drink. It’s not a big problem. I’m not selling myself short, okay?”

Chris hissed, “Good, just shut up.” He tried to pull me again.

Dad signed, We’ll discuss this in the morning.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, okay.” Mocking, “Yes, Sir. Okay. Yes, Sir” And again, softer, more broken, “Yes, Sir.”

Mom’s voice cracked next. “What is wrong with you? Do you hate us?”

I froze.

“No. No, I… I…” My voice collapsed in my throat.

I dropped to my knees in front of her. She was still seated, watching me in disbelief.

“I don’t hate you. Mmm?” My voice shook. “I hate me.” Tears burned my eyes. “I hate me, okay? I hate me…”

The words kept coming, like a purge. “I hate me. I hate me!”

Chris stood frozen. Then I saw it — pain. Fear. Tears in his eyes.

Mom just stared, crying now too.

“You understand?” I begged. “I…”

“I hate me.”

Then I broke. I collapsed, sobbing.

Dad came to me then. Quiet. Steady. He wrapped his arms around me like it was the only thing holding me together.

He lifted me gently, walked me up the stairs step by step. I almost fell twice. He never let go.

He tucked me in. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

Back downstairs, Mom was still sitting, shocked and crying. Chris stood beside her.

“Mom,” he said, voice low but steady, “She has a problem. She needs help. She needs rehab.”

Rafe stayed by the wall, quiet.

Then Dad came back down.

Chris and Mom spoke quietly, shaken.

Rafe didn’t say a word.

He turned and walked upstairs.

And into my room.

Because somehow — through the silence, through the wreckage — he got it.

For once, I wasn’t alone.