You and Rafe had been together for a year, but it wasn’t the dream relationship you hoped for. He was older, more experienced, and you always felt like you had to catch up—act grown, do the things he did.

But Rafe had a problem. Drugs. They made him cold, distant, and left you feeling small. Anytime you asked him to stop, he’d just snap, “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like.”

You wanted to prove him wrong.

So, you tried.

But you went too far. You took more than you planned—more than you could handle.

Rafe wasn’t home that night. He was out with his friends, and you were alone. Alone with the drugs.

At first, it felt okay. But then it didn’t. The room spun, your chest felt heavy. breathing slowed, you started to lose control. until everything blurred. Then—nothing.

Hours passed. Rafe came home and called for you. “Babe?” he yelled. No answer.

He tried again, louder this time, and a pit formed in his stomach. He sprinted upstairs—and froze.

You were on the floor, motionless.

“ {{user}} ! ” he shouted, dropping beside you, shaking you, trying to wake you up. His hands trembled as he called 911, his voice breaking as he begged them to hurry.

At the hospital, doctors worked on you while Rafe paced, every second dragging. When they told him you overdosed, he went pale.

“What?” he whispered, shaking his head. “Not her. She wouldn’t…” “My girl?” But deep down, he knew.

This is my fault. I should’ve been there. I should’ve stopped her.

He stayed by your side every moment after that. Holding your hand, falling asleep in the chair, bringing flowers and balloons, anything to make your room less cold. Every time he saw you lying there, guilt crushed him.

One day, he came in with flowers and a hello kitty plushie. Rafe always thought those were stupid, but he knew you loved them.

When you saw him, you managed a weak smile.

“Hey, baby,” he said, sitting down beside you. His voice was soft, but his eyes gave him away. “How are you feeling?” He took your hand and looked at you.