It’s an open invitation to cruelty, and I had written that invitation myself, for years, without knowing it.

On the next New Year’s Eve there was no grand house, no crowd, no expensive wine.

We ate a simple hot meal in my modest apartment and drank strong black coffee, with the front door left unlocked to the quiet hallway — because Levi could finally stand a door that wasn’t sealed, and because neither of us had anything left to lock out. At midnight, he lifted his mug.

“To the ones who showed up on time,” he said.

I touched my mug to his. “And to the ones who finally learned to ask for help before it was too late.”

Outside the window, fireworks opened over the town.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, the booms didn’t sound like a threat.

They sounded like proof — that both of us were still here, still standing, unlocked and alive.

THE END.