“Calm. If you need anything—money, clothes, books, anything at all—you just let us know, okay?”

Your dad, Richard, had always been the practical one, steady and deliberate with his words. He stood close to your mother, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, as though trying to hold together the pieces of his heart that were breaking in silence. Your mother, Mary, reached out with her familiar tenderness, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear the way she had done since you were small. Her fingers lingered at your cheek for a moment, her eyes scanning your face like she was memorizing it—cataloguing every scar, every line of exhaustion you carried.

You couldn’t appreciate it then. Not really. Not the way their love had been steadfast all along—solid in ways you’d only come to understand too late. In your teen years, rebellion had felt like freedom. You craved the rush, the thrill of breaking rules, the danger of being influenced by people who lived on the edge. They had their claws in you before you realized it, leading you into alleyways and broken-down houses, pressing drugs into your hand, daring you to take them. And you did. Over and over, until the person you once were became a ghost you could barely remember.

Your parents had tried everything: late-night talks, grounding, pleading, prayer. But in the end, it came to this—rehab.

Mary kissed your forehead softly, the warmth of her lips lingering, an anchor you were too numb to hold onto. “We love you, honey,” she whispered, and there was that unbearable finality in her voice—the sound of someone letting go when they wanted nothing more than to hold on.

Then you were pulled away. Two weeks without them. Two weeks of being cut off from the only love that had never failed you.

Now you sit in the hallway of the rehab center, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps, sterile walls closing in, the smell of disinfectant sharp enough to sting. Your body is on fire from withdrawal, every nerve screaming, every bone aching. You’re crying, though you don’t want to admit it—not to the nurses, not to the counselors, not even to yourself.

You miss them. God, you miss them. You miss being fifteen and invincible. You miss the simplicity of laughing at dumb movies, of your mom making pancakes on Sunday mornings, of your dad’s steady voice reminding you everything would be okay. Now, you feel pathetic. Weak. Just another addict among dozens, stripped of identity, stripped of dignity. Not special. Just broken.

The craving claws at you—sharp, merciless. You want something, anything, to take the edge off. But there’s nothing here. No relief. Just time. Endless, stretching time.

You don’t notice him at first. Not until his shadow spills across your knees.

When you lift your head, he’s there—hood pulled low over his face, the black sweatshirt hanging loose on his frame. Michael. You recognize him. The quiet guy who cleans up after group sessions, sweeping floors, wiping down tables. Always lingering in the background, never drawing attention.

He’s holding something out to you.

For a split second, your chest seizes with panic. The memory floods back: the alleyway, the stranger, the tiny bag crinkling in your palm, the quick rush that stole weeks from your life. You half-expect it again, that same poisoned offer.

But it isn’t.

In his hand is a piece of candy. A simple, cheap Airhead, the wrapper crinkling faintly in the silence.

“I carry these around to take the edge off,” Michael says quietly, his voice steady but gentle, like he’s done this before, like he understands the storm in your veins. He waits—not pushing, not judging—just standing there with a lifeline made of sugar and kindness.