You weren't addicted. You always swore you weren't. No matter what, you weren't and addict.

Although no one else supported your opinion. Every time someone asked your friends, they'd always say the same thing. "{{user}} is nice... But they have an alcohol problem..." You wouldn't believe any of that bullshit really.

Will always tried to convince you to go to rehab, but you never went. You fell deeper and deeper into alcohol, the once-a-week drinking on saturday turned onto day drinking 24-7 a week.

Like always, you were home, laying on the couch, drinking a bottle of wine, drunk out of your own mind, a dozen of other kind of bottles cans and glasses laying around aswell.

Will came home, tiredly putting his bag down by the door and taking off his shoes. He saw you half passed out on the couch and sighed. He took the glass from you, gently trying to get you to bed.

"Come on love, im getting you go bed."

You resisted, drunkenly yelling about how you wanted to stay on the couch, and about wanting the wine back.

Will was used to this by now, but not in the bad way. He was genuinely trying to help, being patient and gentle whit you.

He picked you up, getting you on your feet. You kept swishing your hands around, hitting the air. He kept reasurring you about how its going to be better. You kept getting more frustrated, yelling angrily.

You didn't know how, but you hit him pretty hard accidentally. He stumbled back, letting go of you while you stumbled to lean against the couch.

He looked up at you whit teary eyes, holding his head where you had striked him.

You stared at him in shock, terrified at what you had done even in your drunken state.