AN: Continuity note: I started working on this before playing Before the Storm, which portrays Max and Chloe staying in contact for a short while before Max eventually stopped replying. This fic does NOT adhere to that. It follows the original game's implication that there was no contact between the two.

Chloe clung to the phone like it was her lifeline. Maybe it was more like how one would hold onto a venomous snake. A bit of both? A bit of both.

Her thumb trembled over the call button. She'd already dialed the number. Just one push and she could hear her best friend's voice again. Just one push and it could be like it used to be, if only for a brief time.

No, it won't be. It CAN'T be.

She'd told herself that more times than she could count, every time she'd picked up this phone for the last six months. She just didn't want to accept it.

"Fuck," Chloe choked on the word as she pressed the button to clear the number. She dropped the handset on the floor and dashed for the stairs, ignoring the indignant calls of her mother. The tears managed to stay contained long enough for her door to slam and her face to bury itself into a pillow.

She screamed. She didn't stop until her voice gave out.

It wasn't supposed to be like this… We said forever, didn't we, Max? We promised.

Just like that, her despair swiveled on a dime and became anger. She clenched her teeth, growled every swear word she knew, punched and throttled her pillow until her hands started to cramp.

It didn't even begin to convey what she felt. No amount of tears or screaming or swearing could express the gaping void in her heart.

The anger burned itself out in short order, but the despair didn't return to replace it. Instead she was left feeling… numb. Empty. Unable to do anything other than collapse on her bed and whimper softly.

There was a gentle knocking at her door. Her mother's voice. Chloe couldn't even summon the effort to tell her to go away. Thankfully, she left on her own after a few minutes of trying.

Smart, right? To wallow in how alone she was now, then turn away the one person who was trying to be there for her? Excellent thinking, Chloe. A+.

But what help could Joyce provide anyway? She was just as torn up about William's death as Chloe was, maybe more so. Hard to help someone else when you can't even help yourself.

Besides, there was only one person that Chloe wanted to be there. Only one person that knew her inside and out, that could make everything feel right, that could complete her. And Chloe had lost her too.

It had been six months since Max's sudden exit from Chloe's life. Since then she'd heard nothing. No calls, no sign that she even remembered her so called best friend. Not a day had gone by where Chloe hadn't looked back on all their old photos and mementos. Yet, even surrounded by so much proof, she found herself doubting whether Max had ever really existed.

Now you're just being melodramatic, she chided herself. She existed. DOES exist… but maybe she wants to forget that I do.

Of course, keeping in touch was a two way street. She had to keep reminding herself during her rare moments of lucidity. Max hadn't contacted Chloe, but Chloe hadn't exactly contacted Max either. Not for lack of trying, obviously, but… Fucking hell, why should it be on her to reach out first? All the shit she was going through right now, and Max couldn't even bother to check in? Chloe had to swallow her grief and be the one to put in the effort?

Max loved William too, a sane part of her brain said. She's grieving too. All those times you've tried to call? Maybe… maybe she's done the same thing. Can't fault her for that, can you?

Damn logic brain, ruining her brooding. Next thing you know people might start thinking of her as a reasonable person.

It seemed a longshot, but she clung to it. It was a strand of hope, however thin. Now what to do with it? She seriously doubted she'd be able to make a call if she tried again. Even if they did, what could be said that would make up for six months of nothing?

No, if Chloe was going to be the one to do this, she needed to be able to express everything she was feeling without the opportunity for misunderstanding or interruption. She needed a way to show, in no uncertain terms, how pissed off Max's silence made her. How it tore her apart inside. How it was probably the most anyone had ever hurt her before.

How completely ready to forgive she was. Good lord, she'd forgive damn near anything just to have her friend back.

Might as well ask for a telepathic link to her brain, Chloe grumbled to herself, sitting up in her bed. The light outside her window had changed an alarming amount. How long had she been in here? Several hours at least? Late evening's rays filtered through her blinds, casting bands of gold on her desk.

Memories cluttered its surface in every form, from photos to drawings to CDs and scraps of old homework assignments. She found herself walking over to them without thinking and picked up a tattered piece of notebook paper. There, in Max's distinct handwriting, was a long and thought out essay of all the reasons Chloe was her best friend. It had been an assignment back in elementary school, what now seemed a lifetime ago. Chloe managed a small smile at how neat the words were, how lengthy each answer was. Even back then Max had been so sappy.

Not that Chloe wasn't sappy at times. She was just better at hiding it. Usually.

She brushed a thumb across the name at the top, words written by Max's own hand. Something about that comforted Chloe. In some weird, sappy, sentimental way, it was like having a tiny piece of Max herself. There were pieces of her in every photo she'd taken and every dumb arts and crafts project they'd made, but there was something particularly special about written words. Almost like—

Chloe gasped as the idea hit her like a bolt of lightning.

She was moving before it had fully taken form in her brain, carefully taking her mementos of Max from the desk and putting them back in their box. She threw drawers open frantically until she found an unsullied notebook and a pen. She sat down, and without even pausing to consider her words, she started to write.

For a long while she was locked in a reverie with nothing but the scratching of her pen to disturb her speeding train of thoughts. There was a nervous, excited, furious energy to her hand as the words poured onto the page. Her handwriting suffered for it, especially in the angriest sections. Some parts of it were smudged by the occasional tear that fell to the paper. But it was still legible, so she didn't care.

She had many things to say, most of which she would never dare to say out loud. Most of which she could never say to anyone who hadn't been her partner in crime for so much of her life. All of it combined together dwarfed any essay she'd ever written, for she cared about this far more than any stupid school assignment.

By the time she dropped the pen, the sun's light had nearly faded, and her hand was burning. She sat rigid in her chair, breath heavy, heart pounding like she'd just ran a mile, staring down at the novella she'd just written. Damn, what had come over her?

Chloe picked it up with trembling hands and reread it. God damn, some parts of this were scathing, enough to give her pause. Other parts made her start tearing up again. This was like a direct window into her soul. If anyone read this…

Only one person has to.

But could she make herself send it? Even if she did, would Max bother reading it? A not-small part of her was tempted to just tear the pages in two and throw them in the trash. The mere act of venting into the paper seemed to have helped some, perhaps it was best to just leave it at that. She gripped the top of the pages. The smallest of rips appeared.

Knocking at her door again. "Chloe? Honey? Please let me in. I'm worried."

Mom. By the ragged sound of her voice, she'd been crying too. Way to go, Chloe. Stupid, selfish Chloe.

"C-Come in," she manages.

Joyce's eyes are red, but full of nothing but concern as she steps inside. "Are you okay?"

That's the first question she asks? Seriously? "What do you think?"

She sighs. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard. It's hard for me too, you know. I can't understand how much it hurt you when Max left on top of… of William's… And I know I can't replace her for you, but I'm… I'm trying best here, Chloe. I hate seeing you like this… And I think William and Max would too."

Even she talks about Max like she's dead, Chloe thought as tears filled her eyes again. She'd thought she was out of those. She stood and rushed into Joyce's embrace.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into her mother's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Joyce whispered, squeezing Chloe tight. "I'm here for you, Chloe. Helping you would help me too. So if there's anything you need, anything you think I can do to help, please ask me."

Chloe allowed herself the smallest of smiles. "Even… unlimited bacon at Two Whales?"

Joyce chuckled. "I should've said anything within reason."

Little jokes, her mother's laugh. A small spark of light in the vast dark. It wouldn't last. Moments like this weren't enough to keep her afloat, especially when Joyce herself was also struggling not to drown. But it was something.

And in the light of that spark, Chloe made her decision. She lifted her head from Joyce's shoulder to look at the stack of paper. It would either rekindle the brightest flame Chloe had in her life, or it would smother it entirely. The latter made her sick to consider. But better that than waiting forever for nothing. At least in that case… she might be able to move on. Maybe.

Besides, a hipster like Max might appreciate the novelty of it.

"Actually," Chloe started, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "I need an envelope. And a stamp."

Max had barely made it through the front door when her mother wrapped her in a tight hug.

"Welcome home," she says with a squeeze, her voice just a bit too chipper for Monday evening. "How was school?"

"Uh," Max managed as she struggled to breathe in her mother's grip. "Fine? Nothing special really."

Nothing special was a lie, of sorts. It didn't even begin to cover how bland and lifeless her school life was these days. Day in and day out, it was always the same. The same nameless faces, the same dull assignments and classes, the same tasteless cafeteria food. She still had no real friends in Seattle. No one took notice of her, and so she passed between them like a ghost that came and went with the sun's light.

And truth be told, she wasn't sure she wanted new friends, no matter how her parents insisted. No one could ever replace Chloe.

And yet you still can't work up the willpower to call her. Some friend you are.

She'd tried. So many times she'd tried. She'd stand there with the phone in her hand for several minutes until her anxiety forced her to set it down. Making the call meant having to face Chloe's grief as well as her own. It would mean facing Chloe's anger for six months of no contact, and each passing day only made that fear worse. It meant forcing herself back into Chloe's life, when maybe all Chloe really wanted right now was for Max to stay gone.

Stupid, yes, but the anxious brain wasn't beholden to logic.

Normally Mom would've grilled her for something interesting about the school day, but today she mercifully had something else on her mind. "I have something for you, Max."

"Hmm?"

"You've got some mail."

"Mail?" She cocked an eyebrow. What on earth could she possibly have for mail? Somehow she doubted it was an early invitation to a prodigious photography school.

With no further explanation, she handed Max a thick white envelope. Sure enough, it was addressed to Max Caulfield. Who would—

Her heart jumped into her throat.

This… This handwriting is…

The return address in the corner confirmed it.

Max bolted past her incredulous mother for the stairs. She was in the process of tearing the envelope open when she made it to her room, slamming the door shut behind her and locking it. She flicked the light on and jumped onto her bed, tossing aside the tattered remains of the envelope.

It had contained sheets of notebook paper, covered from front to back in black ink. The handwriting was agitated and smudged in places, but there was absolutely no mistaking who had written it. Max swallowed hard, clutching the paper with trembling hands as she started to read.

Dear Max,

Listen up, Caulfield. I'm sitting at my desk writing out a letter by hand like some kind of barbarian purely for the sake of talking to you for once, so you'd better actually read every word of this.

Let's get this out of the way first. I'm fucking pissed at you.

It's been six goddamn months since you left and I haven't heard a single goddamn word. You know who really needs your words right now? You know who could use a little support from their so called "best friend" right after their fucking dad died? I'll give you one guess.

I mean, for fuck's sake Max! You know that if it had been me moving away after your dad died, I would've called you every day of the fucking week? What exactly did you think "forever" meant? Until you left town? Was it always just a fair weather word to you?

Jesus, okay, slow down Chloe. That was harsh. I'm sorry. I'd change it, but like the genius I am, I decided to start this in pen. Too late now. You're getting the unabridged, unfiltered train of my thoughts. No matter how pissed at you I am, you are the only person I trust with everything I'm thinking.

But even if I admit that was harsh, I really AM pissed at you. And pissed at myself. And pissed at a fucking lot of things really. God damn I'm just so pissed off all the time now. I don't remember where I thought I was going with this. Let me try to sort this out.

May as well start at the beginning. The day that you left was the single worst day of my life. Yes, even worse than the day my dad died. Awful as that was, at least I had you there with me. But then, you left when that wound hadn't even begun to heal. It literally felt like having a part of myself ripped away. It was like losing him all over again, only this time with no one to turn to. Mom does what she can, but… fuck man, I don't know. She doesn't understand me or whatever cliche bullshit teenagers say. Only you ever really did.

My only comfort was the thought that we could still talk. I waited by the phone for hours almost every night hoping you would call. I really wanted, really NEEDED to hear your voice, to hear something that wasn't my mom's nagging or my own crying. Instead I got six months of listening to the voice in the back of my head talking all about how you'd finally taken this opportunity to get away from me, that maybe you'd always wanted to. I never did deserve a friend like you, so that made perfect sense. Still does, even now.

I've been missing a lot of classes. My grades are slipping. I spend all my time out of school either locked in my room or standing by the phone trying to work up the courage to call you. I cry myself to sleep every night. I'm not living anymore, Max, not really. I'm just kind of… waiting. You remember that old Spongebob line we always used to quote? "What do you normally do when I'm gone?" "Wait for you to get back."

This is going to sound sappy as fuck, but I don't know how to live without you yet, Max. What am I supposed to do, have pirate adventures on my own? Find some other cute hipster to tease? Get someone else who knows me so well I feel like I can tell them anything? No. I can't replace you. Even if I could, I wouldn't.

But the hole you left behind, the hole my dad left, I don't know how to fill it with anything other than sobbing or anger. I've always been the braver of us (you little chickenshit) but now I'm getting like, serious urges. Self destructive ones. The logical part of me (that's only still alive because of you) knows how stupid it all is, but why the fuck should I care? What does it matter? My dad is dead, my best friend is gone, nothing fucking matters anymore. Mom puts on a big show of worry, but honestly? It scared me too, Max. It really fucking did. But I don't know if I can care enough to be scared anymore.

Let me be perfectly clear, I'm not trying to guilt trip you into staying friends with me. Well, okay, I kind of am, but fuck Max. We promised forever! If this all sounds clingy as hell, it's because it is definitely clingy as hell. And how can I not be after all we've been through together? We're Max and Chloe! The Arcadia Bay pirates! We were gonna rule the world together! Even when you left I still believed that! And I STILL want to believe that!

I really don't need to say this, but. You're my best friend Max. No matter how harsh I've been so far, no matter how pissed off at you I am, that's still true. It will ALWAYS be true. And it might make me a total pushover, but I am completely ready and willing to forgive you for everything. Assuming that you'll forgive me too.

I've been a dick so far. You're not entirely to blame. Some of it is on me. I could have been the one to call. I tried, so many times, but I always siked myself out of it. And maybe you tried a lot too, and weren't able to for all the same reasons. You loved William too. You have your own grief to process. And maybe you miss me as much as I miss you.

Or maybe my brain weasels were right and you just don't want to deal with me. Maybe you were still on the fence before my dickishness in this letter convinced you otherwise. And you know what? I think I could find a way to live with that, somehow in the very distant future, if I knew for sure that's what you wanted. But I need to KNOW first.

So, the whole point of this is to ask you for some kind of sign, one way or the other. I don't care what it is. If you really wanted you could have your mom leave a message on our answering machine that says "Fuck off and die Chloe," and that would be better than nothing.

But I hope that it won't turn out that way. I know things can never go back to how they were. Maybe the Arcadia Bay pirates will never sail together again. But I still want you in my life in some form or other. I want my best friend back.

Damn it. Only you could get this kind of sappy crap out of me. Burn this after you read it. I have a reputation to uphold.

I'm running out of ways to phrase all this. I never was as good at words as you. The message here isn't "I'm pissed, never speak to me again." The message is "I couldn't be this pissed at you if I didn't really fucking care about you and miss you more than I can express so please please please give me something, anything."

This doesn't even convey half of what I want it to, but my hand is cramping and there's some things that words can't do justice. You know me well enough to fill in the blanks. I hope you appreciate the effort at least. I think I wrote more here than in all of this school year combined.

So I guess my rant is over now. I really hope to hear from you soon, for better or worse.

Your (hopefully still) best friend,

Chloe

The pages fluttered out of Max's shaking hands and landed on the bed, several more of the words smudged by fresh teardrops. For a long several minutes she couldn't do anything but bury her face in her hands and sob. At some point there was a knock on her door, but she yelled for them to go away.

Jesus, Chloe… I'm so sorry…

Max was, without a doubt, the shittiest best friend in the history of all best friends. She'd known Chloe had to be struggling just as much or more than she was, but for her to start doubting that Max wanted to be friends anymore? That got to her way more than any of the rest of it did. She could take Chloe's harshest anger because she deserved it. But when her definition of forever was called into question, that's how she knew how badly she'd fucked up. She'd almost be tempted to believe Chloe would be better off without someone like her as a friend, were her letter not so clearly stating the opposite.

When Max's tears subsided enough, she picked up the pages and reread them. Then she read them again, and then again. She could tell exactly how Chloe had been feeling at each point of writing this letter by how her handwriting style changed. Tight, sharp angles in the beginning for anger. Squiggly and blotchy curves in the middle where her tears had fallen. Lighter ink in the last few sections, the pen not pressed quite so hard against the paper as she made her last pleas.

Despite the depressing content, Max can't help but give the pages a tearful smile. Chloe's hand had written these words. Her passion was practically oozing from them. She'd bared herself open to Max again, just like they used to do in their late night talks at their sleepovers. In a way… it was like Chloe had sent a piece of herself to Max. An angry and sad and afraid piece of herself, but a piece of herself nonetheless.

Max placed it against her chest, crying softly now. She knew exactly how Chloe felt. She'd been pissed at herself for not having the guts to just make the call. She'd been torn apart by William's death and being forced to move away. She had no clue how to live in this big and scary town without her partner in crime. She hadn't been living, she'd been waiting, like Chloe said. And more than anything, she desperately wanted her friend back.

I'm so, so sorry, Chloe… This ends now. I'm going to make it up to you. I don't know how, or if I ever can, but I'm going to fucking try. We said forever, and I meant it. I won't ever give you cause to doubt me again.

She stood, intending to march downstairs, go to the phone and call Chloe this instant. But then, as she glanced one more at Chloe's passionate letter, another idea came to mind. She was immediately enamored with it. It'd be slow — Chloe would live another few days thinking Max hated her — but after the effort Chloe had put into this, she had to return the favor, to show Chloe just as much passion as Chloe had shown her.

Besides, there was just something special about written words. A certain… romance, almost.

Chloe's letter still in hand, Max went to her desk and started looking for notebook paper.