You got home earlier than normal. Frankie was home but he was in the garage. He didn't hear you arrive since he didn't receive you with a kiss and a hug. You were tired so you went straight to the bedroom. But as you got a clean pair of clothes, you noticed a box that seemed out of place.

You picked it up, carrying it to the bed. You knew it was most likely Frankie's and you shouldn't be touching his stuff. But just six months ago he had relapsed and had lied about it. You just needed to know. You stared at the box as you opened it, finding his stash.

That night there was a fight over it. You two rarely yelled at each other. But tonight it was the worst. You looked at him in the eyes. The pupils, the mannerisms, that look in his eyes that you had learned to recognize.