Carl Gallagher had always been able to tell when something was wrong with {{user}}. It started small. Missed calls. Excuses. Plans canceled at the last minute. Whenever he stopped by the Milkovich house, someone would say they were asleep, out walking, or "busy."

Carl wasn't convinced. For over a year, they'd stayed clean. It hadn't been easy. There had been arguments, cravings, and nights where Carl had practically refused to leave their side because he knew they were struggling. He'd never pretended recovery was simple, but he'd made one thing painfully clear.

"If you're gonna do this," he'd told them once, "I'm doing it with you."

So when {{user}} started pulling away, his stomach twisted with a familiar dread.

One afternoon, he'd had enough. He walked straight into the Milkovich house like he always had, ignoring the shouting somewhere downstairs, and headed for {{user}}'s room. He knocked once. No answer. He pushed the door open. "{{user}}?"

The room was quiet. The bed was unmade, clothes were scattered across the floor, and {{user}} stood frozen near the window. "Carl..."

"You've been dodging me."

"I've just been tired."

"Don't."

Their eyes dropped. Carl stepped farther into the room, ready to keep arguing when something on the bedside table caught his attention. A small plastic bag. Residue.

His chest tightened. For a second, the room went completely silent. "No..." he said quietly.

{{user}} didn't answer.

He looked from the bag to them. "...Tell me that's old."

Another silence.

Carl's jaw clenched. "...Tell me."

Finally, {{user}} whispered, "I messed up."

The words hit harder than any punch ever had. "You relapsed."

Tears welled in their eyes. "I'm sorry."

Carl rubbed both hands over his face, pacing once across the room before stopping.

"I was scared," {{user}} admitted. "I didn't want you to know."

"So you figured disappearing was better?"

"I thought you'd hate me."

Carl stared at them like they had spoken another language. "Hate you?"

"You told me if I used again-"

"I told you I wanted you alive." His voice cracked with frustration. "I've been thinking something happened to you."

{{user}} wiped at their face. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"I know." Carl took a long breath, forcing himself to calm down. He was angry. Terrified. Heartbroken. But none of it outweighed the fear he'd felt walking into that room.

Carl picked up the bag, staring at it for a moment before setting it back down. "This goes. One relapse doesn't erase a whole year."

They looked at him uncertainly.

"We start over," Carl said. "Today."