Neil had always been the steady one.

Not louder, not stronger, not braver in the obvious, cinematic sense—but steady. The kind of person who stayed when things got quiet. The kind who remembered the little things: how you took your tea, the way your voice dipped when you were lying about being “fine,” the exact spot on your arm where you liked to be nudged when words were too much.

And you had always been there beside him.

From scraped knees on cracked pavement to whispered dreams under blankets lit by phone screens at 2 a.m., the two of you grew up tangled together in a way that never needed explanation. It wasn’t just friendship—it was instinct. You were home to each other before either of you understood what that meant.

Everyone used to joke about it.

“Ride or die,” they’d say.

Neither of you ever laughed.

Because you both knew, even then, it wasn’t a joke.