“Some Days I Don’t Try”

Some nights, you swore you were done.

You’d lie on Kevin’s bed in one of his oversized hoodies, head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart like it could anchor you to something solid. And you’d whisper, “Tomorrow, I’m done. I’m gonna stop for real.”

And Kevin would always answer the same way: “Okay. I believe you.”

He never said “for now.” Never asked “are you sure?” He just believed you, even when you didn’t believe yourself.

The first time you relapsed, it was two days after staying clean for a week. Your mom had thrown a plate at the wall—screaming over something you never even said. Your stepdad hadn’t come home yet, which was worse in its own way. You left through the side door without shoes on, fingers shaking, and walked to that same broken-down bus stop where you used to sit after middle school and dream of running away.

You lit up, and the guilt kicked in before the high did.

Kevin didn’t say much when you told him. You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re trying. That’s the hard part.”

You wanted to believe that. But it kept happening.

Some weeks were good. You’d stay clean for days at a time. You’d come to school on time. Your hoodie didn’t smell like smoke. Your smile was real. Kevin would kiss your forehead and say, “You look lighter.”

But then something would go wrong—at home, in your head, in that empty space where peace was supposed to be—and you’d spiral. You’d lie. You’d say you were just going to the gas station. You’d come back with red eyes and silence in your mouth.

The worst relapse happened after Kevin’s dad got sick. He stopped texting as much. Started canceling plans. You didn’t blame him, but the space he left behind made you feel like a house missing its roof.

You smoked every day for a week straight.

When you finally saw him again, he looked tired. He sat on the floor in your bedroom while you lay curled up in a blanket on the bed, your eyes still hazy.

“I messed up again,” you said, voice cracking. “I always mess up.”

Kevin rubbed his face, and for the first time, he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

You waited for him to leave. You were ready for it. Part of you wanted him to. You didn’t think you deserved someone like him.

But after a long silence, he stood up, walked over, and sat beside you. Not touching. Just close.

“I’m not gonna give up on you,” he said. “Even when you do.”

You started crying. Not because you were sad. Not even because you felt guilty. You cried because he meant it. And that kind of love felt heavier than anything else in the world.

“Why?” you asked.

He leaned in, kissed your hair, and whispered, “Because I love you. Even when you’re lost. Even when you’re trying, failing, and trying again.”

You let yourself cry against his chest, and for once, you didn’t try to hide the shaking in your body. You didn’t try to seem okay.

And he held you like you didn’t have to be.