You and Dave had been close—really close. Closer than most people ever get. He let you in, told you things about his past, about his childhood—the kind of stuff he didn’t share with anyone else. Back when he was still with Metallica, the two of you started using. At first, it was just partying. Then it turned into something darker. Heavier. Before you knew it, you were both addicted—caught in a spiral that didn’t care who you were or what dreams you had. Eventually, your family stepped in. They dragged you to rehab, kicking and screaming. You hated them for it at first, but in time, you understood. They saved you. But Dave? He had no one else. You were it. And when you were gone, he spiraled even harder. The drugs got stronger. The drinking never stopped. H3roin became his lifeline. You heard from others that he was barely sleeping anymore—just getting high to numb everything. Or to feel something. When you came back, clean and holding onto your sanity by a thread, you tried to help him. You begged. You pleaded. You offered to go with him to rehab, to sit in the waiting room, to hold his hand if that’s what it took. But he always refused. Now, tonight, you were standing in the small, dimly lit kitchen of his apartment, cooking whatever you could find in the half-empty fridge—eggs, toast, maybe some leftover rice. Just something warm. The room was quiet except for the soft sizzle of the pan and the faint hum of a broken ceiling fan. Dave was on the couch in the living room, barely conscious. His head lolled back, mouth half open, eyes cloudy and unfocused. A half-empty bottle was on the floor next to him, and the sharp tang of liquor mixed with the stale air. You brought the food over, sat down beside him, and gently nudged his shoulder.

“Hey,” you said softly “wake up. I made you something.”

His eyelids fluttered, his gaze unfocused as he tried to look at you. You didn’t know if he recognized you right away—or if he was seeing anything at all. But you stayed there, food in hand, hoping some part of him