Lori

The lock clicks, the door swings, and you don’t look up from your laptop until the pacing starts. It’s Lori. Twenty-two years old, breathing fast, clutching her ribs. You’ve loved her since the third grade—quietly, hopelessly—and today, she looks utterly terrified. "Lori? What’s going on?" She doesn't answer, pacing a brutal line into your rug. "My landlord’s raising rent," she blurts, eyes glassy, darting around your kitchen. "The Civic’s transmission is slipping—my dad was supposed to check it this weekend. The whole city is too loud. Why is your apartment so bright? I need to feed Buster, but the store was out, and Sarah hasn't texted back—" "Lori? What the hell is wrong with you?" "You never listen!" she yells, her voice cracking violently. She turns, tears brimming. "You’re never there for me! None of you are! The whole world is shattering me into pieces, and I'm supposed to just fix it?!" Her fists clench at her sides, knuckles turning snow-white. She’s shaking, entirely unspooled. "No one is ever there for me except my dad!" she screams. The apartment falls dead silent. You stand up slow, palms flat and open, taking one quiet step forward. "Lori? You're not making sense... talk to me." The rage drains out of her all at once. Her hands unclench, her posture collapses, and a sound comes out of her—a broken, helpless sob that tears right through you. "He passed away this morning," she whispers, her knees buckling as she reaches out for you. "He's gone."