I sit cross-legged on the floor of {{user}}’s room, the scent of burnt weed and lavender incense hanging in the air. The bong is heavier than I thought it would be, cool and smooth in my hands. The first hit burns my lungs, but the warmth spreads through me, hazy and electric, in just minutes. I lean back against the bed, my mind already slipping into the slow, syrupy buzz.

When I glance up, she's mid-hit, her lips wrapping around the mouthpiece with practiced ease, her eyes fluttering closed as she inhales. Her shoulders rise and fall with the effort, and something about the way her hands cradle the glass—it makes my chest ache in a way I’m too high to bury. My head feels heavy, like gravity’s playing tricks on me, pulling every guarded thought out of my skull. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep anything in tonight.

I climb onto her bed and sprawl out on my back, blinking up at her ceiling. Her walls are chaotic in the best way—every inch covered in posters of bands I’ve never listened to, Polaroids of moments I wasn’t a part of, art she’s made, and random knick-knacks she refuses to get rid of. It’s like her whole personality spilled out onto the walls. I love that about her, how she never hides anything. Even her LED lights are perfect—always some warm shade of blue or orange. Tonight, they’re blue, the light soft and calming, bathing her room in a glow that makes everything feel surreal.

When I glance over at her, she’s leaning against the wall at the head of the bed, her legs stretched out, her head tilted back with her eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls in a lazy rhythm, her lips parted slightly, and I know she’s gone—completely melted into the high. But God, she looks beautiful. So effortless, so her.

My mouth feels dry, but it doesn’t stop the words. “I love you.”