you find the cup first — tucked behind the speaker in his studio. half-full. syrupy. and your stomach sinks.

you don’t say anything right away. not when you hear the water running in the bathroom, not when he steps out with that slow, sleepy look in his eyes. you just nod, acting like nothing’s wrong, even though your chest feels tight.

he doesn’t notice at first. or maybe he does and just pretends not to. he moves slower than usual, talks less, disappears into his hoodie like he’s trying to hide. his limbs are heavy, his laugh is softer, and when you ask if he’s okay, he shrugs and says, “just tired.”

that night, he doesn’t make it to bed. you find him passed out on the couch, hoodie bunched up, legs half-off the edge, his phone buzzing with a missed call. his skin feels clammy when you touch his face.

you sit beside him for a while, pulling a blanket over his chest. cleaning the empty cup off the floor like it’s something normal. like it’s not breaking your heart.

you don’t yell. you don’t cry. you just stay there — watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting the seconds between his breaths, brushing your fingers through his hair while he sleeps.

his eyes blink open slowly, red-rimmed and hazy. he looks at you like he’s not sure if you’re real.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper. “i tried to stop. i really did.”

you already knew. but now it was clear. he had relapsed on lean

AN: (i do YL fanfics, here’s a link ;) https://www.wattpad.com/story/406103061?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=arabeIIa)