1:42 AM. Your phone buzzes. You already know who it is.

"Took you long enough," Natalie slurs. "You miss me?"

"Nat, where are you?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere. The stars are insane. Or maybe I am."

Your grip tightens. "How much?"

"A lot. Not enough to make her voice go away."

That stings.

"She was at it again?"

"When isn’t she?" A bitter chuckle. "Called me a sl*t. Classic."

"So you got high."

"Duh. Wouldn’t be calling otherwise, would I?"

That stings worse.

"Where are you?"

"Liquor store. Or gas station. Lost my wallet."

You grab your keys. "Stay there."

"Nah, let me sleep in a ditch. Poetic, right?"

"Not funny."

A pause. Then softer—"Can I come over?"

"Yeah. Of course."

She hums, tired. "Knew I could count on you, babe."

And just before she hangs up—so soft you almost don’t catch it—

"Love you."

You almost believe it. But tomorrow, when she’s sober?

She won’t call. Yet you still go.

She’s worse than usual—slouched outside, cigarette hanging from her fingers, smudged mascara. She grins, sloppy.

"Heyyy, my hero." She stumbles, and you catch her.

"Jesus, Nat."

"You smell nice."

"You smell like weed and regret."

She snorts. "Accurate."

The drive is quiet—sniffles, restless fingers, flipping radio stations.

"You good to walk?"

"Mmm. Probably not." She trips, leans into you, half-asleep.

Inside, the door barely shuts before she’s on you—hands in your hoodie, lips desperate, tasting of vodka and smoke.

"Nat—" You pull back. She chases your mouth, hands slipping under your hoodie.

"Don’t," she pleads, lips at your jaw.

She’s drowning.

"I need this," she whispers, nails digging in.

But you know better.

She doesn’t need this.

She needs to forget.