Page 12 of My Best Friend Is Broken

The word is soft, hoarse, but it hits me harder than any bullet I’ve ever dodged.

By the time the episode ends, his head has tilted sideways, his hair brushing the fabric of the sofa. His eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep.

“You can crash here,” I say.

His lips part like he wants to argue, to insist he’ll go to his own room, but the fight dies before it even starts. He sinks lower into the cushions, his body sagging with exhaustion.

I turn the volume down until it’s barely a whisper.

Minutes pass. His breathing evens out, and before long he’s asleep.

I sit there, not moving, watching the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. The apartment feels different with him in it, not quieter, not louder, but alive in a way I hadn’t noticed was missing.

I remember the way he gripped my hand in the park. Tight. Desperate. Like he needed the anchor.

I glance at him now. His hand is curled on the cushion between us, fingers twitching faintly with dreams. Without thinking, I let my own hand drift closer, not touching, just near enough that if he reaches out again, I’ll be there.

Because that’s the vow I made on the first night in the dark. I won’t let him go.

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter five

Nicky

The morning light filters through the blinds in golden stripes, cutting across Liam’s face as he sits curled up on the sofa. He’s wearing one of my old band t-shirts, faded and soft with age, and for the first time since he came home, he looks almost relaxed. Almost like the boy I remember.

We’ve been up for an hour, moving through our new morning routine with the careful precision of a dance we’re still learning. Tea instead of coffee because Liam says caffeine makes him jittery. Toast with honey because it’s sweet and simple and doesn’t require decisions. The radio playing softly in the background, some mindless pop station that fills the silence without demanding attention.

“I dreamed about the old house last night,” Liam says suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your mum’s house. The one with the blue wallpaper in the kitchen.”

I remember that wallpaper. Hideous stuff with tiny flowers that made the whole room look like a tea cozy. Mum had been so proud of it.

“The one that gave you a headache?” I tease gently.

His mouth twitches. “Yeah. But in the dream it was... nice. We were making pancakes and arguing about whether to put chocolate chips in them.”

“You always wanted chocolate chips.”

“You always said it was too much sugar for breakfast.”

“Still do,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Pancakes are supposed to be sophisticated. Elegant. Not some sugary mess.”

This time he actually laughs. It’s small and rusty, like a door that hasn’t been opened in years, but it’s real. The sound fills something hollow in my chest.

“Sophisticated pancakes,” he snorts. “Listen to yourself, Nicky. We used to eat cereal for dinner.”

“That was different. That was by choice.”

“That was because your mum was working double shifts and we were too lazy to cook.”

“Exactly. A lifestyle choice.”

He shakes his head, but he’s still almost-smiling, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery. These moments of lightness are so rare, so precious. I want to wrap them up and keep them safe.

“I think I might try going outside again,” he says after a moment, the words coming out in a rush like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. His fingers worry at a loose thread on the cushion. “Maybe tomorrow.”

My chest swells with something that feels dangerously close to hope. It’s been three days since our disastrous trip to the park, and I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up again, not wanting to push.