You used to think loving him was the best thing you’d ever do. You carried the warmth of him in your chest, like a secret, like a promise that things would always feel that good. But love didn’t stay warm with him—it burned. It charred you until you couldn’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

You hadn’t smoked before him. Hadn’t touched alcohol. He asked, and you said yes. Every time. Because saying no felt like losing him, and losing him felt worse than losing yourself. At least at first.

You loved him. God, you loved him. And he loved the way you bent, the way you followed, the way your loyalty bled into obedience. He took and took until your reflection wasn’t yours anymore—it was his. His shadows, his sharp edges, his recklessness. You weren’t you. You were him.

And the worst part? He didn’t even try to stop you. He let you rot beside him, your soul as blackened as his. Then one day, he walked away, and you were left in the dirt he’d pressed you into.

The house party was loud, the music pounding into your bones, but all you could feel was the burn of the drink as it slid down your throat. You’d lost count. Not your first, not your fifth, but somewhere in between, and the number didn’t matter anymore.

Taylor found you in the crowd, her eyes catching yours. Concern flickered there—real, raw. She scanned you, the cup dangling loose in your hand, the way your smile didn’t quite touch your face.

“Didn’t you have enough, {{user}}?” she asked softly, reaching for your cup like she could pull you back from the edge with that small gesture.

You shoved her hand away. Harder than you meant to. She stumbled back, her expression cutting into you—hurt, but not surprised.

“God, what’s wrong with you?” Her voice broke before she caught herself. “You’re just like him.”

The words stuck. Heavy. Sharp. You didn’t even argue. You just stared at her, lips parted, silence choking you.

She was right.

You looked like him. You were him.

And you didn’t know how to stop.