The car ride to school was... quiet. Not awkward, just comfortably silent. Luke was humming to some old playlist, Eve was texting someone with a ghost of a smile on her face, and I sat beside Sebastian, our shoulders brushing every time he turned slightly.
He didn't pull away.
At school, everything went back to its regular rhythm—but I wasn't quite in step. Mrs. Topas reminded us the project was due tomorrow, and I leaned over to Seb in history class.
"We still need to finish the last section. We can meet again after school in library."
He nodded, tapping his pen against his desk. "Practice after school"
I arched a brow. "You ditching Pedro and Inês's tragic aesthetic?"
He laughed "We can meet after the practice"
"Okay After your practice My home"
"Okay Ma'am" he told me with a smile
After school, I worked my shift at the café. Asher didn't speak to me. Didn't even meet my eyes. But I could feel his gaze tracking me from behind the counter. Like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he was angry. Or hurt. Or both.
But he said nothing.
And silence has a way of bruising, even without words.
By six, I was home. The quiet was loud. The walls too still.
I changed into soft clothes, made tea I didn't drink, and sat with our half-done notes, thinking about love and tragedy and how sometimes they were the same thing.
When the doorbell rang, I didn't jump.
I just opened it.
Sebastian stood there, hoodie damp from the rain, a paper bag of snacks in one hand, hair tousled like he'd run his fingers through it too many times.
"You brought offerings," I said.
His smile was small. ""I figured if I was dragging you through 14th-century tragedy, I might as well offer sugar.""
I smiled and open the door to welcome him inside the house
The rain had started again—soft, steady, tapping against the windows like a heartbeat. It was dim in the living room, the kind of dim that makes everything feel warmer. Closer.
Seb and I sat on the floor, surrounded by half-written notes and open books, the glow from the table lamp washing everything in honey-colored light.
I tried to focus on the paper in my hand.
I really did.
"So," I said, clearing my throat, "we're supposed to analyze how the myth of Pedro and Inês connects to modern perceptions of romantic tragedy. Which is... dramatic. Even for Mrs. Topas."
Seb made a quiet noise in his throat—half a laugh, half a sigh—as he leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out.
"Pedro had his lover's corpse exhumed and made the court kiss her hand," he said, shaking his head. "I mean, that's some serious dedication. Or madness. Or both."
"Romantic madness," I offered, chewing the end of my pen.
His gaze slid to me. "You think that's love?"
I hesitated. "I think… it's the kind of love people write about. Obsessive. Beautiful. Tragic."
"Sounds exhausting," he murmured, eyes still on me.
My pulse skipped.
He wasn't even trying.
I forced my eyes back to the textbook. "Still. There's something kind of… haunting about it, isn't there? How he couldn't let go. Even after death."
Seb leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine. "Maybe letting go is harder than people admit."
I swallowed. My heart thudded in my chest—loud, uneven, impossible to ignore. "Especially when it's real."
There was a beat of silence between us.
Then he said, quieter this time, "What if you don't realize it's real until it's already slipping away?"
I looked at him.
He was close. Closer than before.
His eyes didn't move from mine. The air between us felt different now—thicker, slower, humming with something unspoken.
I could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"We should finish the paper," I whispered.
"Yeah," he said, but he didn't move.
Neither did I.
He reached for one of the open books, and his hand brushed mine—barely. A whisper of contact. But it was enough to send my stomach into a quiet spiral.
I didn't pull away.
His fingers lingered against mine, then settled, warm and steady, between the pages.
I looked down at our hands. Then back at him.
And I could feel it. That shift. That slow-blooming ache in my chest, the one that only ever came when he looked at me like this.
Like I wasn't just a girl sitting on the floor, trying to finish a school project.
Like I was something more.
His voice dropped again, softer now. "You're shaking."
"I'm not," I said, too quickly.
He gave the tiniest smile. "Your hand is."
I tried to breathe. "It's just cold."
"It's not cold in here."
I turned my face away, trying to find something clever to say. But all I could feel was the electric space between us and the way my body felt like it was waiting—for something.
He leaned in a fraction more. "Liv…"
My name on his lips made something flutter beneath my skin.
"I don't know if this is a good idea," I whispered.
"Probably not," he said.
And then—just as his face neared mine, our breaths tangling, our lips almost brushing—
Bang.
We both jumped.
The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot. I jerked back, almost knocking over the stack of papers between us.
"What the—?" I gasped.
Seb was already on his feet. "Who the hell bangs on a door like that at night?"
I glanced at the clock. 8:45 p.m.
"I'll check," I said, already halfway to the stairs.
"I'm coming with you," he said, following behind.
I opened the door cautiously.
And there he was.
Carter.
He looked like hell.
He stood on my porch, drenched from the rain, swaying slightly, his eyes bloodshot, skin pale and waxy. His shoulders were hunched like he was barely keeping himself upright.
"Carter?" My voice cracked. "What the hell—what are you doing here?"
His eyes flicked past me—and landed on Sebastian, who stepped into view behind me.
Carter blinked, startled.
"Oh." His voice was barely audible. "You're here too."
Sebastian didn't say anything. His posture straightened. Jaw clenched. The air between them sparked with an instant, awkward tension. It was subtle—but it was there.
Carter didn't look at him again. His gaze dropped back to me. "Liv… I need your help." before collapsing into Sebastian's arms.
"Shit!" I lunged forward, but Sebastian was faster—catching Carter before he hit the ground. He held him up by the arms, half-dragging him inside and putting him on the couch.
"He's burning up," Seb muttered, adjusting his grip.
I dropped to my knees beside them. Carter was barely conscious now, mumbling something under his breath, his lips pale.
"I'm calling someone," I said, fumbling for my phone.
Seb reached over, steady but firm. "Wait."
"What? No—he needs help—"
"He's high, Liv."
I stared at him. "No. No, he wouldn't. He—he knows better."
Seb looked at me, serious. "Look at him."
"He hates drugs. He—he saw what they did to his mom—he told me he'd never—"
"Look at his eyes."
I did.
And my stomach dropped.
His pupils were huge. Blown wide, swallowing the color from his irises. His skin was cold and clammy, pale under the porch light.
Oh my God.
I felt like the floor dropped beneath me.
"Did he—did he overdose?"
Seb didn't answer. He knelt beside him and started shaking him gently.
"Hey. Carter. Come on, wake up. Open your eyes, man."
Carter stirred.
His voice slurred. "Who the hell are—oh... Seb. What the f—why are you even here?"
Seb's jaw clenched, but he didn't say anything.
Then Carter looked at me. "Olivia."
His voice cracked again. "You always open the door."
My stomach turned.
"What did you take?" Seb asked.
Carter groaned. "I... I don't know."
Seb shot him a look. "That's not an answer."
"I don't remember!" Carter snapped. Then he crumbled again, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't mean to. I don't even remember when I started... I just—I just wanted to stop feeling like shit all the time."
I sat beside him slowly.
Carter looked at me, eyes swimming with tears. "I don't want to take it anymore, Liv. But I... I can't stop thinking about it. I crave it. Every goddamn day. And it's killing me."
"I didn't mean for it to get this far," he whispered. "It started with sleep. Just pills. Nothing heavy. I couldn't shut off my brain."
He rubbed his face, fingers trembling. "Then it was something stronger. Just for the edge. Then… I needed it to function."
"Carter—" I began, but my voice caught.
"I didn't tell Emily," he said, voice flat. "I couldn't. She still thinks I'm the version of me she started dating. The one who didn't hate himself."
Silence again. Only the sound of the rain outside, soft and steady against the window.
"You should've told someone," I said. "Before it got this bad."
"I'm telling you," he whispered.
And I hated that it still meant something — that he still came to me. Like I was some kind of safe place. Even after everything.
"Why me?" I asked. "After everything you did. After how you let me break."
His eyes met mine for the first time, really met them. "Because you were the last person who ever looked at me like I mattered."
Maybe I should start a loyalty card: Come cry on Olivia's porch five times, get a free hug and emotional CPR.
Sebastian shifted, and Carter looked up at him for the first time.
"I know you think I'm an asshole," Carter said, voice stiff. "And you're probably right. But I'm not here to fight. I'm not trying to get in the way. I just… I didn't know where else to go."
Seb didn't answer right away. His expression didn't change much, but his jaw worked slightly, like he was holding something back.
Finally, he said, "I'm not going to pretend I understand what you're dealing with. But if you're serious about getting help… this is not the right place to start."
Carter didn't respond. He was sitting hunched on the edge of the couch, staring at the floor like it was the only thing holding him together. His shoulders trembled—barely noticeable—but I saw it.
His voice, when it came, was low and tight. "I can't go to a professional."
I blinked. "Why not?"
He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not just fear, it's… I don't know. Once you go to someone like that—once it's official—it's real. It means it's all real. The addiction. The weakness. The label."
"Carter…" I started, but he kept going, words tumbling out now like he'd been holding them back too long.
"I can't do that. Rehab. Therapy. Any of it. I can't sit in some sterile place with strangers poking into my head, asking about my mom like they think that's going to fix it." His voice rose, eyes wide and frantic. "What if I start and I can't finish it? What if I'm too far gone?"
"You're not," I said, quickly, firmly.
He looked at me like he didn't believe it. "You say that now."
"I mean it," I insisted. "You're not too far gone. But this?" I gestured between us, my voice softer now. "This isn't enough. I'm not trained for this, Carter. I can't be your treatment."
"I didn't come here because you're trained," he said, finally looking at me. "I came because… because you were the only person I thought would still care. I thought you'd help me. I don't trust anyone else to see me like this. Not even Emily."
There was a long pause, the kind that seemed to breathe on its own.
I sat back slightly, my heartbeat thick in my ears. "You're with her."
"I know."
"She should know," I said, my voice tightening. "She has a right to know who you are. What you're going through."
His jaw clenched. "She loves the part of me I made up. The version that wakes up early to bring her coffee, that doesn't cancel dates or miss calls. She loves the guy who always has a joke in his back pocket and who looks good under Friday night lights."
"And that's not you?"
Carter shook his head slowly. "It's not all of me. But it's the only part she's seen. And this—" he glanced down at his trembling hands, his sunken eyes, "—this would ruin it. She'd leave."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he whispered. "Because I almost don't want to see myself like this. How could she?"
I swallowed hard. "So you come to me instead."
"Because you saw all of me," he said, voice cracking. "Even back then. You knew when I was slipping. You knew when I lied. And you didn't run."
"That doesn't mean I should be the one fixing you."
He flinched slightly, but nodded.
"I'm not angry anymore," I continued, more to myself than to him. "I was. For a long time. But I let it go. You left me alone when I was falling apart, and then you let everyone believe the worst things about me. And now you're with Emily, and I don't have any right to you anymore. I know that."
"You still feel like home," he whispered.
My heart twisted in a way that made me ache and recoil at the same time. "That's not fair."
"I know."
"But if you want real help," I said, quieter now, "you need to face the part of yourself that's scared. You need to tell Emily. You need to go to someone who can help you, not someone who just… holds your hand while you fall apart."
"I'm scared," he said again. "I can't stop shaking. I'm craving it again."
Sebastian stepped in then, voice low but firm. "You're craving it because your body's used to lying to you. It tells you the drug is the answer. But it's not."
Carter nodded slowly, but his breathing got heavier. His hands started to twitch again.
"It's happening again," he muttered, voice cracking. "I can't— I need something."
I moved closer, placing my hand on his. "You don't need the drug. You need to ride this out. Just for tonight."
"I can't," he said, breath catching.
"You can," I whispered. "You're already doing it."
"Where's my bag?" he muttered, scanning the room.
"What?" I asked, cautious.
"My bag—I had it—I had something in there—just something to calm down—"
Sebastian stood too, voice low but firm. "You're not taking anything."
Carter's head snapped toward him. "Back off."
Seb didn't flinch. "No."
"You don't get to tell me what to do."
"You're in her house," Seb said. "You don't get to bring that shit in here."
Carter's hands curled into fists. "I just need a little. I swear. Just to stop shaking—just to sleep."
"No," I said, standing too now. "If you're going to stay here, you can't use."
Carter looked between us, eyes wild. "You don't understand how bad it gets. It's like… screaming inside my head, and I can't shut it up unless I take something."
Seb's voice softened slightly. "Then we'll sit with you through it. But you're not giving in."
Carter swayed on his feet, his whole body trembling. He stared at us like we were enemies—like we were holding him underwater.
Then he collapsed onto the couch again, curling into himself like a child. His voice was hoarse. "I hate this. I hate who I am when I'm not high."
"You're still you," I said. "You're just buried under all the hurt. But you can dig your way out."
He didn't reply. He just shook silently, breathing ragged, hands twitching like they were reaching for ghosts.
Sebastian sat on the armrest beside him, still tense, still watching. Ready to intervene again if he had to. But there was something softer in his eyes now too. Not pity—something else. Something like quiet understanding, or maybe just the exhaustion of someone who'd seen too much.
Eventually, Carter stopped shaking so violently. His breath evened out a little. His head slumped to the side.
He was asleep.
Or close to it.
Seb glanced at me. "You okay?"
I nodded, slowly. "You?"
He exhaled. "Yeah. Just… didn't expect that."
We stood in the quiet again, the rain still tapping against the windows, the air full of unsaid things.