Frank Langdon knows exactly what addiction looks like because he still sees pieces of it in the mirror every morning.

It started with a back injury. Helping his parents move because he was “too cheap for movers,” according to him. One bad lift. Torn muscle. Slipped disc. Pain severe enough to make breathing feel like punishment. Then came the prescriptions. Painkillers. Muscle relaxers. Little miracles in childproof bottles.

And then came the need.

Nobody noticed at first because Frank functioned beautifully under pressure. Maybe even better than before. Faster. Sharper. More distant. Detached enough to cut through trauma without getting tangled in it. The ER rewarded that kind of numbness.

Until it didn’t.

—

The first thing you notice is his breathing.

Not the monitors. Not the distant overhead pages echoing through The Pitt.

Frank.

Slow. Uneven. Awake.

Your body feels heavy and wrong, your throat dry, your chest aching from the inside out. Then memory returns in flashes: a bathroom floor, pills beside the sink, your phone buzzing unanswered, darkness swallowing everything whole.

You force your eyes open.

The room comes into focus piece by piece—the fluorescent lights, the IV in your arm, the steady green pulse of the monitor beside you.

And Frank sitting in a cheap plastic chair next to the bed, elbows on his knees, still in wrinkled scrubs from a shift that clearly ended hours ago.

You haven’t seen him in years.

Not really.

Just passing photos online. Hospital fundraisers. A picture once of him beside Abby with a baby in his arms and another kid clinging to his leg.

She had swept into his life after college like a storm. Beautiful. Warm. Easy. The kind of woman people built futures around. And Frank—god, Frank had always wanted something easy.

You’d known him before the white coat and wedding ring. Your short lived relationship was all slammed doors and late-night drives with nowhere to go. You spent years wondering why you weren’t enough for him to stay. Now here he is, broken in all the same places.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says softly.

His voice sounds wrecked.

“What happened?” you ask.

Frank lets out a hollow laugh. “You don’t remember?”

You try to move and instantly regret it.

“You overdosed,” he continued, “they brought you in cyanotic. Your breathing was garbage. Heart rate tanked. Another couple minutes and—”

He stops.

Silence settles heavy between you.

To escape it, you say the first thing that comes to mind. “You should be home… with Abby and the kids. Not me.”

Something changes in his face immediately.

“We got divorced.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“Few months ago.”

“What happened?”

For a second he says nothing.

Then: “Turns out becoming a drug addict puts stress on a marriage.”

You’ve never heard Frank sound ashamed before.

“I went to rehab,” he admits. “Got more grace than I deserved.”

And suddenly you understand the look on his face. He isn’t looking at you like a patient. He’s looking at you like a mirror.

Frank finally lifts his eyes to yours. “I thought you stopped.”

“…?”

“After the first incident.” His voice sharpens suddenly. “I thought that scared you enough to quit.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Clearly not.”

“At some point,” he snaps, standing abruptly, “you have to decide whether you actually want to live.”

You stare at him. “Wow.”

Regret flashes across his face instantly, but you’re already speaking.

“No, go ahead, Frank. Say it like you’re different from me.”

“I am different.”

The answer comes too fast. Too defensive.

“You think rehab magically fixed whatever’s wrong with you?” you whisper. “You’re standing here looking at me like you’re terrified of yourself.”

“I’m terrified because you were dead for thirty fucking seconds.”

The room falls silent again.

“You coded,” he says quieter now, looking away. “Your heart stopped.”

You can’t speak.

Frank laughs under his breath, but it sounds frayed apart at the edges. “And the whole time I’m standing there thinking… of course it’s you.”