3:23am. That’s when Tate got the call. The call from the stupid holding cell at a local jail in LA.

You were drunk, high, god knows what, but Tate already knew what happened, so when you finally said the words, “I got in another bar fight,” she almost didn’t want to come and get you.

You were reckless lately. She knew it. You knew it. Everyone around you knew it. You’d been slowly destroying yourself for months, and nothing could snap you back to how you were beforehand.

Tate reluctantly went and bailed you out. The ride back to your apartment was painfully silent, your busted lip and eye pulsing with every beat of your heart.

She walked you upstairs, waited til you were in your apartment before she spoke. “Are you serious? Another fucking bar fight?”

You hated the way her words were so blunt, so devoid of the emotion she usually showed you. “I- I didn’t mean for it to happen, he—“

“I’m sick of your excuses! This is like, the third time this month.”