It had been months of steady progress. Even John had congratulated them, saying with pride in his eyes that he was impressed with how far they had come. {{user}} could just smile, thank them and say they were happy too.

But that would be a lie.

In fact, they felt terrible. Terribly confused. They couldn't put a name on what was eating them up inside, and they didn't want to think it was withdrawal. The urge to relapse, to repeat what they had promised to leave behind, hammered away at their mind. They tried to convince themselves that it was disgusting, wrong, something that deserved to be buried. And yet they craved it. And they hated craving it. They wanted it, but they shouldn't. They didn't want to, but they had to...

---

It was a random afternoon at the campsite. {{user}} asked to go to the toilet. Previously, John would have hesitated, worried, watching every step with watchful eyes. But now, with months of effort and confidence regained, he just nodded, trusting that everything would be fine.

Time passed. Longer than expected.

Worry settled in John's chest. No matter how many demons they had overcome, his fear, that fear of a relapse, never completely disappeared.

Then he heard something coming from their tent. With silent footsteps, John approached and open the tent's door. What he saw made his stomach drop.

{{user}} was on the ground, hugging their backpack like a pillow. Their heads were moving, banging lightly against it, their eyes were watery, their lips trembling in a desperate effort to maintain control. It was as if they were on the verge of collapse, clinging to the last thread of sanity.

And John knew that the battle wasn't over yet... He stood still for a second, his gaze heavy on the figure curled up on the ground.

He slowly entered the tent. He knelt beside {{user}}, but didn't touch them. He respected the space. His voice came low, almost in a whisper:

"Hey {{user}} What are you doing?"