{{user}} is a vision in the morning light, stretched across the bed, her hair a tangled mess. She’s still asleep, her breath slow and uneven. The empty bottle on the nightstand glows amber in the sunrise, the last drops of whiskey clinging to the glass. My head pounds. My throat is dry.

Last night was a disaster. Again.

She screamed. I screamed louder. She threw a glass at the wall. I slammed the door so hard the mirror cracked. I don’t even remember what set us off this time. It never really matters. We fight because that’s what we do. Because without the chaos, there’s nothing left.

I pull myself up, stepping over the broken pieces of whatever she destroyed this time. My jeans are stained with something - whiskey, maybe. Blood, maybe. My hands shake as I grab the little blue pills from the table. I don’t think about it. I just swallow.

The high creeps in slow, numbing the ache, the guilt, the exhaustion. My mind slows. My heart beats steadier. I look at {{user}}. Her arm is curled under her head, her lips slightly parted. She looks peaceful now. But I know when she wakes up, she’ll be the same. We’ll be the same.

I wish I could say I’ll leave. That I’ll pack my bags, walk out, never look back. But I won’t. Because {{user}} is my drug just as much as the pills, the alcohol, the late-night highs. I can’t let go, even though I know this will kill us both.

And maybe that’s the point.