by Lilly Tuttle

I watch the tears gather in my best friend’s eyes. I feel the longing resting in her soul, the pain settling heavy in her mind.

I hug her tighter than I ever have, wanting her to understand—without words—that I’m here for her. When we finally pull apart, she looks at me, eyes glassy and unsure.

I gently take her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the tears tracing down her cheeks.

I remind her who she is. I remind her that she is one of the strongest people I have ever known.

That her pain is my pain. That even while I’m fighting my own war, I will always pause to help her fight hers.

A soft laugh escapes us when I bring up a memory only we share, something small but warm, something that reminds her she is still herself beneath the hurt. I tell a quiet joke, and for a moment the weight lifts just enough for her to breathe.

I pull her into another hug, holding her like I can shield her from everything that’s ever tried to break her. I press my forehead to hers and whisper, don’t cry.

Not because her tears are weak—but because she doesn’t have to be strong alone tonight. I pull her closer, feeling the way her body shakes as she exhales everything she’s been holding in.

My arms stay firm around her, steady, unyielding—like if I don’t let go, the world can’t touch her.

Her fingers clutch the back of my shirt, and I realize how badly she’s needed someone to stay. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, over and over, like a promise I intend to keep.

I remind her that it’s okay to fall apart here, that she doesn’t need to carry the weight of everyone else’s expectations when she’s with me.

I tell her she’s allowed to rest. She’s allowed to hurt.

Her breathing slowly evens out, and I rock us gently, the way you do when you’re trying to calm a storm.

I rest my chin on the top of her head and close my eyes, wishing I could pull the pain out of her chest and carry it myself.

If I could, I would. Without hesitation.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red, but there’s something softer there now—something safer. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear and give her a small smile.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out,” I tell her. “You just have to keep going. And I’ll be right here while you do.”

I take her hand, squeezing it gently, grounding us both in the moment.

No matter how dark the night gets, she won’t face it alone. Not now. Not ever.

Forever and Always.