The air in Barry’s trailer is thick—cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, the chemical bite of cocaine still burning in my nostrils. My body is buzzing, but my head feels detached, floating somewhere above me. Across the room, Rafe sinks deeper into the couch, a lazy grin on his lips. His fingers brush through his messy blonde hair as he exhales slowly, completely lost in the high.

I should be feeling it too. The euphoria. The weightlessness. That’s why I did it, right? To feel something different. To escape.

But I don’t feel free.

I feel sick.

I push myself off the couch, my legs barely steady as I stumble to the bathroom. The door creaks when I shut it behind me, but I barely hear it over the pounding in my chest. My hands grip the sink as I lean forward, blinking at my reflection in the cracked mirror.

And that’s when my stomach drops.

I look like hell—my pupils blown wide, my skin too pale, my lips dry and parted. But it’s more than that. It’s the emptiness in my eyes. The hollow, lost expression.

It’s him.

It’s my dad.

“Damn,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the ringing in my ears. “I look just like my fucking dad.”

The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, and suddenly, I’m eleven again—standing in the living room, staring at his lifeless body on the couch. His head tilted to the side, his hand still gripping an empty bottle. His skin cold. His lips slightly parted, like maybe he had something left to say.

I remember screaming. Shaking him. Begging him to wake up.

I remember promising myself that I would never be like him.

But here I am.

Because of Rafe.

Because I love him.

Because I let him pull me into his world, let him convince me that the highs were worth the lows, that I could keep up. That this wouldn’t destroy me.

But it is.

I take a shaky breath and stumble back into the main room. “Rafe…”

He barely lifts his head, just reaches for my hand with a lazy smirk. “You good, baby?”

I stare at him. At the boy I love, the boy who is dragging me under.

No im not okay.