HAPPIER THAN EVER - BILLIE EILISH

The ceiling feels too far away. Or maybe it’s just your head—spinning, floating, sinking all at once. You’re sprawled on the floor, the room bathed in the hazy gold of streetlights bleeding through your window. Everything feels distant. Soft. Like the world’s been wrapped in cotton.

Your phone rings. The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and sudden. You don’t check who it is—don’t even think to. Just bring it to your ear, exhaling as you murmur, “Hello?”

Silence. A beat too long. Then—

“Hello...?”

You freeze.

Regulus.

Your breath catches. For a second, you wonder if you’re imagining it, if the lack of sleep hit too hard and dredged up ghosts you swore you’d buried. But then he sighs, and it’s unmistakable—low, tired, a little wrecked. There’s a faint crackle of static on his end, like he’s moving, shifting.

You don’t say anything. Maybe you can’t. But he doesn’t need you to.

“I—” He stops, exhales sharply. “Fuck. I don’t even know why I called.”

His voice is rough, a little slurred. That flutter in your chest? It’s probably just the high.

Probably.

The silence stretches, heavy with something unspoken. Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is loud in your ears. You should hang up. You should say something cruel. You should remind him why you left, why you swore you’d never do this again.

But you don’t.

“I think,” he says finally, slow and thick like honey dripping from a spoon, “I’m really fucking high.”