He’d been sat there, staring at the ice melting in his glass for what felt like ages. The music, the chatter — all just background noise by now, muffled and far off like he wasn’t really part of it. Had to be a few hours he'd been here, maybe six? Long enough for his stomach to be sloshing with booze and barely a scrap of food in it.

Some days all just blurred together now — wake up, drag himself round the flat, neck the strongest, most bitter coffee he could manage. Stare into the mirror at the state he’s in. Try to lie to himself, lie to his bloody heart, say he doesn’t need this. That he doesn’t need her.

But it’s not just a lie. Not really. It’s a fucking joke. A weak, half-dead joke that even he can’t say out loud without choking on it. Lana knows it. So do his mates, the ones who’ve stopped calling. They can see it — in his eyes, in the way he hasn't been sober since she left. Not one night.

And what can he do? Nothing. {{user}} was his person. The one. But she doesn’t love him anymore. She moved on. And he’s left clutching something dead, trying to call it hope.

Bar’s gone quiet now. Just him and the weight of it all. And his phone, screen lighting up like it wants to mock him. That same photo on the lockscreen — the two of them, still smiling, still pretending it’d last. Could’ve changed it weeks ago. Didn’t. Doesn’t want to. Feels like if he does, it makes it real.

His head’s a blur and there's just one thought trying to break through the noise: Don’t. But he’s not listening. He’s already up, already staggering out.

He moved through the streets like something half-dead, dragging himself along like every step cost more than he had left to give. Hair damp with dew and sweat, stuck to his face. Beard growing in, rough and uneven. Just an utter fucking mess, and he knows it. Should be ashamed, really.

Getting to her place was too easy. He could do it blindfolded.

“{{user}}?” he knocked, voice barely there. Hoped for something. Music, her voice, maybe even those daft little giggles she used to let slip.

Nothing. House dark. No one home. Not even there to let him beg — not to come back, just to look at him. Just to feel something. Anything. Let her take it out on him if she wanted.

And he broke. Drunk and pitiful, he slumped down onto the pavement like he didn’t have bones left to hold him up. Hand over his face. Shoulders caved in. Whole body saying you shouldn’t have come. But he had. And he knows he’ll probably do it again.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. And that’s what really fuckin’ hurts.