Max finds you sitting alone, staring at nothing.

She doesn’t announce herself. Just drops down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. She nudges you with her shoulder, gentle, deliberate.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “You’re doing that thing.”

You don’t answer.

Max sighs and leans back on her hands, eyes on the ceiling. “You know… El used to look at you like you were proof this world wasn’t totally messed up.”

That gets you.

Your breath stutters, and Max immediately turns, softening. She reaches for your hand, not hesitant, not awkward. Just there.

“I know it feels like you should’ve stopped her,” Max says. “Like loving her somehow made this your fault.”

She squeezes your hand. “But that’s not how it works. You didn’t lose her. She chose you. All the way to the end.”

You finally look at her. Max’s eyes are glassy, but steady.

“She believed in you,” Max continues. “And yeah, it hurts like hell. But that means it mattered.”

She leans her head against yours, casual but intimate. “And for the record? You don’t have to be strong around me. You can be angry. Or empty. Or a total mess.”

A small pause. Then, softer: “I’ll sit with you as long as it takes.”

Her pinky hooks around yours. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not after her.”