Everyone was trying to get Michael to get clean, it was a silent understanding that he needed the help. A couple months went by and he was joking around again, you thought he was getting better this time. He wasn't.

Being the last in the restaurant, you finish cleaning and close it. However, you had left your phone inside, and now you also forgot the key. Fortunately, you were planning on hanging out with Michael tonight anyway, and he had a spare key. So you go to his house, and being as close as friends as you two are, you use the key you knew was hidden below a rock in front of his door.

You enter his house. You walk a little, stepping into his living room. The coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles and a prescription bottle turned over, its contents spilled across the surface. Michael sits on the couch, hunched over, his hand wrapped around a nearly empty glass. His eyes are glazed, unfocused.

You enter quietly. Michael doesn’t immediately notice, too lost in his own world. When he hears the door creak, he freezes for a moment, then his gaze shifts to the floor before meeting your eyes.

He swallows hard, then picks up the glass, almost spilling it in his haste to drink the last of it. His hand shakes slightly as he sets it down on the coffee table with a soft clink. Michael shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck, as if he's ashamed to look you in the eye for too long.

After a moment, he lets out a small sigh, then speaks—his voice barely above a murmur, strained “I didn’t... mean for you to see this.” He clears his throat, his hands reaching for the bottle of beer near him, though his fingers falter, unsure.

Michael’s gaze flickers to you again, then quickly away, as if he can’t bear to keep it there. He rubs his face with both hands, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out something he doesn’t want to face. He stands suddenly, but his movements are slow, uncoordinated, like his body is struggling to keep up with his mind. “I know I fucked up... again.”