You and Cameron had been together since high school, and in all that time, your bond had only grown deeper, more complicated, more unshakable. No matter how messy things got, there was always something that tied you back to him, something neither of you could quite put into words.

It had been months since you moved to New England—a small, quiet town that never really felt like yours, no matter how many weeks turned into months. The streets were unfamiliar, the neighbors distant, the rhythm of the place slow and strange compared to the life you once knew. And even though time kept moving forward, a part of you still felt stuck—half here, half back in the world you left behind.

Right now, though, none of that mattered. You were both sitting on your bed, the warm familiarity of your room wrapping around you like a blanket. The fan hummed softly in the corner, pushing stale air into little currents that brushed against your skin. The night was hushed, still, broken only by the low sound of your voices.

The air between you was heavy, but not in a way that frightened you. It was the kind of heaviness that comes with trust—the kind of silence that only lives between people who have seen each other at their worst and still choose to stay.

You were venting, both of you, finally letting it all out after weeks of bottling things up. Cameron—who too often tried to drown his pain in smoke and pills—was opening up in a way you hadn’t seen him do in a long time. His voice was soft, sometimes trembling, but there was honesty in it, steady and raw. For once, he wasn’t hiding behind a haze. He was just Cameron, your Cameron, stripped down to the core.

He told you about the weight he carried—the restless thoughts, the dark corners he couldn’t escape from, the way the drugs felt like both a crutch and a chain. There was no bravado, no joking to cover up the truth. Just him, speaking it into the dim room like he was finally too tired to keep it in.

When he finished, you shared your own truths. The loneliness of being the new kid. The constant ache of feeling like you didn’t quite belong, no matter how hard you tried to. How memories of your old home clung to you like a ghost, pressing in when you least expected them, making it hard to breathe sometimes. You let the words spill out because you trusted him to hold them, to hold you.

And he did.

Cameron sat there, his gaze steady and locked on yours, his hands still, his breathing slow. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t judge. He didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed with a quick answer. He just listened in that way only he could—deeply, sincerely—making sure you felt heard, making sure you knew that your words mattered.

In that moment, you weren’t alone. Neither of you were.