The thing about Tod Waggner was—he never knew when to shut up. He was loud, sarcastic, always joking, always teasing. The kind of guy who’d steal your fries, poke fun at your music taste, and still be the first one to show up when you needed someone at 3 a.m.

You’d known him for years. Since middle school, actually. You’d seen every version of him—awkward, reckless, charming—and through it all, he was your person.

But that night on the roof changed everything.

It was one of those heavy summer nights where the air felt thick and restless. You couldn’t sleep, and neither could he, so Tod texted you:

“Meet me on the roof. Don’t ask why.”

You climbed out your window and found him already there, sitting with his back against the shingles, eyes on the stars.

“Deep thoughts?” you teased, settling beside him.

“Something like that.” He offered a lazy grin, the kind that never failed to melt you a little. “Just thinking how small everything looks from up here. Problems, people, school… it all feels less real.”

You glanced at him, surprised. Tod wasn’t usually one for introspection. “That’s unusually poetic for you.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

The silence after that was comfortable. Familiar. But there was a shift—something soft, almost electric, humming under the quiet. You could hear his breathing beside you, steady and close.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke again—voice quieter this time. “You ever think about how weird it is? We’ve known each other forever, but I still don’t know if you really know me.”

You frowned, turning to face him. “Of course I know you.”

He looked at you then—not the usual playful glance, but something real, something that made your chest tighten. “Yeah, but do you know why I always make jokes? Or why I never talk about what I want for the future?”

You didn’t. Not really.

“Because,” he went on, his voice low, “if I don’t joke, I start thinking about things I can’t fix. About people I could lose. About how fast everything changes.”