Being friends with Tryst definitely was an emotional rollercoaster; never knowing which direction his next step could take, or whether he'd spiral into chaos or somehow pull off a miracle. He could be warm one moment and unreachable the next, full of reckless ideas and yet heartbreakingly sincere when he let his guard down. I had learned that his loyalty ran deeper than he let on, even if it was often buried under sarcasm, bad decisions, and the faint smell of weed and coffee grounds.

So when I came home after a long shift at work, it was actually no surprise to see Tryst on my couch, clearly drunk.

The TV was on, playing something he wasn’t watching. His feet were up, one shoe off, a half-empty bottle of tequila tipping sideways against his thigh. There was a new dent in the couch cushion, probably from him pacing and crashing down too hard. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. Not from the alcohol, not just that... From crying.

"Hey," I said gently, not even bothering with a joke. "You good?"

Tryst turned his head slowly. His smirk was crooked, hollow — not his.

"M’fine," he muttered, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "You know me. Livin’ the dream."