Ruslan sits in a dimly lit room, slouched on an old couch, a joint between his fingers. His phone vibrates in his hand, and he already knows what it is. Knows before he even looks. "Kis, please, get me a dose." He exhales smoke, watching it dissolve into the air—just like the principles he once tried to hold onto. He stares at the screen, his finger hovering over the message, as if he could erase it that way. He knows what he’s doing. Knows this shit eats you alive from the inside. Knows that one day, she won’t text at all. "This is the last time." He always says that. Time passes. Ruslan can’t sit still anymore, his nerves stretched thin, his phone a permanent weight in his hand. He doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t know who she’s with. But he knows she’s high on something. "How are you?" Message sent. Delivered.