Jamie is glad he can’t see the crowd through the flashing lights on the ceiling. He doesn’t want to see their disappointed faces as he stumbles over words and plays the wrong chords to songs he’s been performing for years. More specifically, he doesn’t want to see your face.

He’s frailer than usual, his cheeks sunken in and his ribs visible through his tank top. He reaches up to wipe some stray powder off his face, the white dust reminding him of the road he’s going down.

He won't stop, though. He can't. He's tried to, but he's barely gone more than a week without going right back to it. He becomes violent without it, as if it’s the only thing keeping him sane. It's like a warm hug. It's comfortable for a few seconds, calming even. Until its arms start to tighten around his body, refusing to let go no matter how he thrashes. It eats at his bones until he's nothing more than a shell, unable to fight back.

Jamie holds on tightly to the mic stand, his guitar forgotten around his shoulders. He needs to hold onto something, so he doesn't fall. It doesn't do much. The room continues to spin anyway.

He ends the show early so he can go throw up somewhere, ignoring the boos of the crowd as he leaves the stage. You hurry backstage, finding him in the staff bathroom kneeling before the toilet as he heaves. You wait for him to finish, peaking your head through the door once his gags have ceased. His eyes are tired, bruise-like marks under them signifying he hasn't slept in days. His gaze turns to you, shockingly cold.

“If you've come here to scold me, just know I won't remember anything you’ve said by the morning.”