The Unbreakable Three

They met on a Tuesday.

Not that any of them remembered the date. But it was sunny, and the school cafeteria served meatballs that day—Lucy always said she could never forget a good meatball, and that was how it began.

Lucy, the loud one.

Jamal, the calm one.

And Finn, the one always staring at the clouds.

Third grade turned into fifth. Then middle school happened, and with it, lockers, acne, and secrets. But through it all, they stuck together. People called them “The Unbreakable Three”—mostly joking, sometimes annoyed, but always a little jealous.

They weren’t perfect. Not even close.

Lucy was fearless, sometimes to the point of reckless. She once climbed the roof of the school on a dare and nearly fell, laughing the whole time. Jamal was the planner, the peacemaker, the one who made sure no one got suspended. Finn was the dreamer, the artist, the kid who turned their adventures into comic books that he stapled and gave them at lunch.

They grew up on Maple Street, in a sleepy town with nothing to do and too much sky. Their world was tree forts, bike races, secret handshakes, and late-night talks about what they’d be when they grew up.

Lucy wanted to be a firefighter.

Jamal wanted to be a lawyer.

Finn just wanted to make art that made people feel something.

High school tried to pull them apart.

Lucy joined track. Jamal buried himself in debate club. Finn started spending more time in the art room, sketching alone during lunch. Other people came and went. Crushes happened. Fights flared.

But always, somehow, they found their way back to each other.

Until the accident.

It was spring of senior year. They were driving to the lake—Lucy behind the wheel, Finn riding shotgun, Jamal in the back, arguing about which playlist to put on.

They never saw the truck coming.

Finn woke up in the hospital three days later with a broken arm and bruised ribs.

Lucy was in a coma.

Jamal was gone.

For a while, everything broke.

Finn stopped drawing. He stopped going to school. He sat beside Lucy’s hospital bed and talked to her like she could still hear him. He read her old comic books—the ones he made when they were ten—and cried when she didn’t laugh at the jokes they used to think were brilliant.

It took months for Lucy to wake up.

When she did, she didn’t remember the crash. She barely remembered Jamal.

The doctors said it might come back. It might not.

Finn sat beside her and told her stories.

About the time Jamal built a slingshot that launched a water balloon over three houses.

About the time they got caught sneaking into the movie theater and Jamal convinced the manager they were filming a documentary on small-town youth.

About the way Jamal always carried gum and gave it to nervous kids before class presentations.

He made Lucy laugh. He made her cry. And slowly, the memories started to return—not all at once, but like puzzle pieces, sliding into place.

She remembered Jamal’s laugh. The sound of his footsteps on her porch. The way he always said “We’ve got this,” before doing something terrifyingly dumb and weirdly brilliant.

One day, Finn brought her a sketchbook.

Inside was a new comic.

“The Unbreakable Three.”

It told their story—from the cafeteria meatballs to the lake, from scraped knees to broken hearts. It wasn’t polished. The drawings were raw, the ink smudged.

But Lucy held it like a treasure.

“I remember now,” she whispered. “I remember us.”

Years passed.

Lucy moved to the city and became a firefighter, just like she always said.

Finn became a graphic novelist. His first book—“The Unbreakable Three”—won an award and broke hearts across the country.

Every year, on the anniversary of the crash, they returned to Maple Street. To the old tree fort, now falling apart. They’d sit on the cracked wood and share stories about Jamal.

“He would’ve hated this weather,” Lucy would say if it rained.

“He would’ve worn a tie,” Finn would reply. “Even here.”

They laughed, they cried, they remembered.

Because some friendships aren’t bound by time.

Some bonds don’t break, even when the world does.

And though one seat was always empty, the space was never silent.

They carried Jamal with them—in memory, in laughter, in every choice to keep living boldly, lovingly, as he would have.

They were no longer kids. Life had scattered them, scarred them, grown them up.

But still, always, they were the Unbreakable Three.