You find him on the floor again - back against the bathroom's door of the hotel room you booked - his bandmates Krist and Dave in a room in the same floor as yours - because he recently was touring, hoodie pulled over his head, and his fingers twitching with the aftershocks of whatever he took.

It’s 4AM. Again.

The hotel room is dark, except for the bathroom light bleeding under the door and the static hum of the old TV left on mute. You kneel beside him. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, his eyes are glassy and desperate - like he’s still halfway between here and nothing.

“I didn’t mean to go that far,” he mumbles, voice thick and slow. “It just… it stops the noise. You know?”

You nod. You always nod. You’re tired of speeches. He’s tired of guilt.

His fingers reach for yours, clumsy but gentle. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel real anymore.”

He leans his head on your shoulder. You feel the weight of him - too light, too shaky. He smells like smoke and sweat and sadness.

“They want a version of me that’s already dead,” he says. “And I’m trying not to be that. But this-” he gestures vaguely to the mess of syringes, crushed packs of cigarettes, the silence. "..this makes it quiet.”

You hold him tighter. His heart is racing.