The night is cold, but you stopped feeling it a long time ago.

You sit on the rusted swingset, gently rocking back and forth, the metal chains creaking with each lazy movement. A joint dangles between your fingers, its ember glowing faintly in the darkness as you take another slow drag, letting the smoke curl in your lungs before exhaling. The world around you blurs, your thoughts turning hazy, distorted—just the way you like them.

Because when you’re high, the ache in your chest dulls. The memories quiet. The loneliness doesn’t feel so crushing.

You stare off into the empty park, your gaze unfocused, your mind drifting—until something catches your eye.

A shadow.

At first, you think it’s just your paranoia creeping in, the weed playing tricks on you. But then the shadow moves.

A figure stands at the edge of the playground, partially obscured by the dim glow of a streetlamp. Watching.

Your grip tightens around the swing’s chains, your pulse kicking up slightly. You should probably leave. Run. Do something.

But you don’t.

Instead, you watch as the figure steps forward, slow and deliberate. As he moves into the light, you finally get a good look at him.

A guy—no older than twenty - maybe a few years ahead of you. His face is hollowed out by exhaustion, dark circles bruised beneath his bloodshot eyes. He sways slightly, the telltale signs of someone lost in their own high.

Then, he stops.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.

And for some reason, you don’t look away.