“You Don’t Have to Float Alone”

You didn’t remember when weed stopped being a way to feel good and started being the only way to feel anything.

Most days, you’d come home and go straight to your room, light up with the window cracked open just enough so your mom wouldn’t smell it—or at least pretend not to. Some nights, she’d bang on your door, yelling about the dishes, the laundry, your attitude. But you were already gone by then, halfway into the clouds, halfway into forgetting.

Being home felt like drowning in slow motion. Being high felt like floating just long enough to breathe.

The only real thing left in your world was Kevin.

He didn’t smoke. Not because he was against it, but because he didn’t need it. And for some reason, that made you admire him even more.

You met up with him behind the rec center after school on a Wednesday. You hadn’t texted him all day, and still, he was there—hands in his pockets, waiting, like he already knew you needed him.

Your hoodie sleeves were too long, your eyes were red, and your mouth tasted like burnt apple-flavored wrap. Kevin didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, really looked at you, and said, “Rough one?”

You nodded and sat on the bench, your head heavy. You expected silence, maybe judgment. But instead, Kevin sat beside you and pulled your head onto his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“No.” “You want me to stay?” You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move either.

The light buzz of passing cars filled the space between you, but Kevin didn’t shift or check his phone. He stayed still, his hand tracing light shapes on your arm through the fabric of your sleeve—tiny circles, slow lines. You didn’t realize your breathing had gone shallow until he pulled you in tighter, like anchoring you to the ground.

“I hate being home,” you whispered, finally. “I hate it so much I don’t even know who I am when I’m not high.”

Kevin was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I know who you are.”

Your throat tightened. “Do you still like her?”

He turned his head toward you. “I love her.”

You flinched a little. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he said. “Even when you’re messy. Even when you’re high. Even when you can’t see anything good in yourself—I do.”

You blinked hard, and for the first time in days, the tears came instead of smoke. You pulled your knees to your chest and buried your face in his hoodie, and he let you fall apart without rushing you to put yourself back together.

Later, when the sun started to fall and the sky turned the color of ash, Kevin walked you home.

He didn’t say you had to quit. He didn’t tell you what to do. But he held your hand all the way to your front door, like saying:

If you’re going to float, I’ll float with you. But one day, when you’re ready—I’ll be right here to help you land.