You sat cross-legged on the bed, quietly folding the last of his laundry. It wasn’t really your job, but the chaos in Jeffrey’s room had been gnawing at you all week and tonight you finally gave in. A half-collapsed pile of shirts sat beside you, smelling faintly of smoke and something sharper, something chemical. Across the room, he leaned against the open window, the night air spilling in and tangling through his hair.

The dim light caught on the pale lines carved across his lips and cheeks, scars twisting when he dragged on the cigarette hanging there. He had told you he was trying to quit, said it in that lazy, offhand way he always did, like it wasn’t a big deal. But the ashtray on the windowsill told another story, a graveyard of half-smoked promises. And it wasn’t just the cigarettes. You knew about the other things too. The pills. The nights he came back smelling like gasoline and rain.

Jeffrey didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed locked on the black stretch of trees outside, as if the darkness had something to tell him. He exhaled slow, the smoke curling out into the cold, carried away before it could linger. A part of you wished you could leave like that too, fade before the weight of him settled on you again. But another part stayed rooted, drawn to his chaos like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

The boy was a mess.