The door slams shut. Hard. Like everything with you lately. Ozzy stands there, in the middle of the living room, breathing heavily, eyes clouded with that quiet rage he doesn’t know how to release without breaking everything.

"Don’t look at me like that," he spits, not even meeting your eyes. "Don’t look at me like you know what this is."

His hands are trembling. Not from withdrawal this time. But from everything. From not being able to have a damn glass of wine, or a cigarette, or anything to numb the knot that’s growing from his chest down to his belly.

He clutches his abdomen without thinking. As if expecting it to hurt more. As if the pain could justify the fury.

"Do you know what I’d give for one fucking line? For a whiskey, even a cheap one? Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to run away from this?"

He paces the room like a caged animal. Like the paintings are staring at him. Like everything around him is silently screaming that he’s changed, that he’s no longer the same. But he is. He’s Ozzy. Only now, he carries something inside him. Something that forces him to take care of himself. Something he never asked for but doesn’t want to lose either.

"I can’t smoke. I can’t drink. I can’t fuck my head up even one night without thinking I might kill him," he says, voice cracking. "And everyone expects me to get it right! Like it’s fucking easy!"