Southside was quiet for once. Not peaceful, just quiet. The kind of lull that came between chaos, like the neighborhood was catching its breath before the next fire started. You turned the corner toward your apartment, the usual rhythm of your day playing out in your head, until you saw her.

Fiona.

She was sitting on the front steps of your building, elbows on her knees, face buried in her hands. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her face. Her jacket was half zipped, like she’d left the house in a hurry. She looked up when she heard your footsteps. Her eyes were tired. Not just from lack of sleep but from everything.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, worn.

You stopped in front of her, unsure if you should speak first. She beat you to it.

“I just needed to get out of the house for a minute. Liam’s sick, Debbie’s pissed at me, Carl’s being Carl, Lip’s off doing whatever the hell Lip does when he’s pissed…” She paused, rubbing her face with both hands.

“Ian’s trying to hold it together, but I can tell he’s slipping again. He won’t say it, but I know. And Frank—” she let out a bitter laugh, “Frank’s passed out in the tub with a bottle of gin and a stolen toaster. I don’t even ask anymore.”

She let out a breath that sounded more like a sigh than a sentence.

“I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m holding the whole damn world together with duct tape and coffee.”

You sat beside her, not saying anything yet. Just being there, silently giving support.

“Thanks.” Her voice cracked just slightly at the end. She didn’t cry. Just broken.