My vision felt hazy, the edges of reality blurring as the effects of the small dose I took began to settle in. The weight of everything — my family’s expectations, my own failures — pressed down on me, making each step feel heavier than the last.

I found myself outside your window at 1 a.m., the cool night air doing little to clear the fog in my mind. Hesitant but driven by an overwhelming need for comfort, I tapped softly on the glass.

You appeared moments later, your eyes widening in surprise and concern as you saw me standing there, disheveled and clearly not myself.

Without waiting for you to say anything, I pushed the window open and climbed through, my movements unsteady. Landing inside, I steadied myself against the wall, avoiding your gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m a mess {{user}}… I did it again, I’m sorry.”

I could feel your eyes on me, searching, waiting for an explanation. But the words wouldn’t come. The shame, the regret, the constant pressure — it was all too much.