“A guy my age…” he smiled.

Fuck. Your parents were the absolute worst — two people who should’ve just shut the hell up and agreed for once instead of tearing each other apart like rabid animals. You sit in your room, the door barely holding back their yelling, your only company a sketchbook and the thoughts clawing at your skull.

Then, without warning, they’re there — faces twisted, reeking of booze, spitting venom in your direction. You feel their alcohol-laced breath burn your skin as they scream things they’ll never remember. This is why you drink. This is why you cut. This is why you fuck. Because for a few goddamn minutes, the noise stops. The world blurs. It feels good.

You storm out of the house, rage burning in your chest, feet dragging you to the same shitty bar that’s seen more of your tears than your bedroom walls. Beer after beer — until your hands shake less, until the ache in your chest dulls. You lose count around the third.

And then he shows up — a boy your age, eyes catching yours through the dim haze. You blink once, twice. Did you just… imagine that? A guy you’ve barely seen for two seconds, and suddenly, he’s all you can think about?