You and Lip had always known each other—since scraped knees and schoolyard dares, since before you even realized how messed up everything around you was. Back when you still thought the South Side was just your neighborhood, not a trap. At seven, sitting on the stoop with dirt on your cheeks and your dads already drunk inside, you made a promise: “We’ll be for each other, no matter what.” And you meant it.

But life got louder. Messier. You both grew into your tempers. Into shouting matches that ended in slamming doors and then awkward silences, then shoulders bumping again like nothing ever broke. Lip started smoking young—too young. You hated it. Told him every damn time. “It’ll kill you,” you’d say. He’d roll his eyes, blow smoke in your face. Over time, you stopped fighting him on it. You got tired. But never stopped noticing.

Now, you’re seventeen. And something inside you’s been caving in for a month. You don’t laugh like you used to. Don’t eat much. Don’t talk. Lip knows. He always knows. But he hasn’t asked. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you are too.

It’s two in the afternoon. His room stinks of ash and stale air. He’s on the bed, arm over his face, shirt twisted around his ribs, cigarette dangling from his mouth like it belongs there. You’re in his desk chair, knees to your chest. Watching. Counting.

Nine. That’s his ninth.

“Ninth,” you murmur, barely loud enough.

He doesn’t look at you. Just exhales.

“It’s your ninth, Lip,” you say again, louder, standing now.

“So what? You keep count now? Wanna give me a gold star if I stop at ten?” he mutters, lips curled.

“I’m serious. You’re killing yourself.”

He scoffs. “Jesus Christ, here we go again.”

You feel it then—something between anger and heartbreak. “You’ve been smoking since we were kids. Since we were too damn young to even buy them. And I watched you. Every day. I’m tired, Lip. Of this. Of you killing yourself in slow motion like it doesn’t mean anything.”

He sits up fast, eyes sharp. “Oh, please. Don’t start with that emotional crap. You think you’re the only one tired? You think I like this?” He gestures at the cigarette. “It’s not about liking. It’s coping. You wouldn’t get it.”

The room is quiet. Smoke curls between you.