You had been dating Jesse for only four months, a short amount of time, but every moment with him had been intense and meaningful. In those months, Jesse had opened up to you completely, baring the depths of his soul. He shared everything—his troubled past, his struggle with addiction, his battles with guilt, and even how he managed to make so much money. There were no secrets, or so you thought.

Jesse’s life had taken a sharp turn after his last relationship with Jane Margolis. Her tragic death—choking on her own vomit after they both used heroin—had plunged him into a deep depression. He’d entered rehab soon after, encouraged by Walter White. That’s where he met you—the person he would come to call the true love of his life. You had been there for your own addiction to cocaine, but by then, you were already ten months sober. Jesse claimed to be clean as well. Claimed.

Your relationship had quickly grown serious, and the two of you decided to live together. It felt stable, even grounding. One evening, after finishing a course in art that you had enrolled in post-rehabilitation, you came home. Jesse had seemed a little off for days, but you dismissed it, trusting that if something were wrong, he would tell you. He always had. He wouldn’t hide anything. Would he?

As you stepped through the door of your shared home, you called out.

─── Babe, I’m home! ─── When no response came, you assumed he wasn’t back yet. You made your way to the bathroom to remove your makeup, expecting nothing unusual. But as you opened the door, the scene stopped you in your tracks.

There was Jesse, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. His shoulders shook with every sob. When he heard you, he slowly lifted his head. The sight made your stomach drop—a belt wrapped around his arm, a spoon lying on the floor beside him, and a syringe close by.

─── I’m sorry… ─── Jesse choked out, his voice trembling between sobs.