Max doesn’t cry loud.

She just sits there on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled in, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to keep something from spilling out. Her sunglasses are off for once. You can tell she forgot them on purpose.

“She promised,” Max says finally, voice flat. “She promised she wouldn’t do it alone again.”

You sit beside her. Don’t rush. Max hates that. Your shoulder brushes hers, and she stiffens, then slowly leans in, like she’s testing whether it’s safe.

“She always acted like pain was… a shortcut,” Max mutters. “Like if she took enough of it, the rest of us wouldn’t have to.”

Your hand finds hers. She squeezes hard. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” she whispers. “Again.”

That’s when her breathing breaks.

You pull her into you, arms wrapping around her back, and Max buries her face into your shoulder. Her fingers clutch your jacket like you might vanish too.

“I’m so tired of losing people,” she chokes. “I don’t want to be brave anymore.”

You hold her tighter. No speeches. No fixing. Just there.

After a moment, she murmurs, barely audible, “Don’t leave, okay?”

You feel her nod against you, like she’s making the promise too.