Months.

We haven’t talked in months, and each time I see you, I feel the worst urge to speak with you. But I can’t, there’s just no reason, and you hate me, I‘m too sure of it.

Our relationship was toxic, and I know it. We killed each other with our mental issues. But I thought it got better when we got clean together. Thought wrong.

Now I meet you in the hallway again as you come out of your apartment, it‘s the most awkward silence between us. And then, it suddenly happens: a reason to talk to you.

I see a little ampoule fall out of your purse, you haven’t noticed. I pick it up as soon as you‘re far enough away, looking at it curiously.

Morphine.

My hands start sweating as I stumble back towards the door of my apartment, not even thinking about approaching you with it. I can‘t. We don’t talk about drugs.

Inside, I place it on the table. Should I give it back to her? Should I throw it away? Should I keep it? What if I relapse. I know where I keep those needles.