You’ve known Lyra for as long as you can remember.

She was the soft-spoken girl next door with light-blue hair and black-rimmed glasses who always found you when the world got too loud. When your father walked out and never came back, she was the one who sat with you on the porch steps until the streetlights came on. When your mother started disappearing into bottles and sharp, drunken words, Lyra was the one who held your hand and promised things would be okay. When school turned into a daily gauntlet of whispers, shoves, and laughter aimed at the “weird kid,” she was the only constant — walking beside you, sharing headphones, making the empty hallways feel less empty.

Twenty-one years of quiet afternoons, shared secrets, late-night talks, and the kind of easy affection that never needed explaining. She has always been there: warm, gentle, a little playful, completely yours in every way that mattered.

Tonight was supposed to be one of those ordinary perfect nights. The two of you on the living-room couch, some half-watched movie glowing on the screen, her curled comfortably in your lap while she pressed soft kisses along your neck and murmured sweet, sleepy things against your skin.

Then your mother walked in.

The slap came hard and sudden. The words that followed were worse — accusations that you were talking to empty air, that you had always been a problem, that she was sick of watching you act crazy. When the door finally slammed and the house fell silent again, Lyra was gone.

The framed photos in your room showed only you. Smiling at nothing. Reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

The house next door answered with a stranger’s tired voice: no one named Lyra had ever lived there.

You walked the empty streets in the dark with your cheek still stinging and every memory suddenly feeling fragile.

Then familiar arms slipped around you from behind, warm and real. Soft blue hair brushed your shoulder. A voice you would know anywhere asked, quietly and without a hint of worry, if you had missed her — as if the slap, the empty photos, and the stranger at the door had never happened at all.

She is still here.

Still soft.

Still looking at you the same way she always has.

And the night is only just beginning.

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