“Only When I’m With You”

Most nights, your room smelled like weed and regret.

You didn’t even like it that much anymore. At first, it made you feel light, untouchable—like everything at home didn’t matter. Like the screaming two rooms over couldn’t reach you through the haze. But lately, it just made your chest heavy. Made the world blurry in a way that wasn’t dreamy—just dull.

You tried to hide it at school, but Kevin always knew. He didn’t ask, not directly. He just noticed things. How your sleeves smelled faintly like smoke. How you stopped making eye contact. How you showed up to first period with a blank stare and shaky hands.

One afternoon, he found you behind the art building, sitting on the pavement, knees hugged to your chest. You didn’t even try to hide the joint in your hand.

He didn’t say anything at first—just sat next to you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Bad day?” he finally asked.

You let out a humorless laugh. “It’s Tuesday.”

Kevin didn’t press. He never did. He just reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a blue ring pop. Held it out wordlessly.

You stared at it, then at him.

“What, you think candy’s gonna fix my life?”

He shrugged, but his voice was soft. “Maybe not. But it tastes better than weed.”

You didn’t want to laugh, but you did anyway. You took the ring pop, and he smiled like it was a small win. You hated how much you needed him—how calm you felt just sitting next to him. No buzz, no high, just… quiet.

You stared at the wrapper in your lap. “I hate it there, Kev. At home. I can’t breathe when I’m there.”

He looked over at you, really looked. His expression wasn’t pity, wasn’t discomfort. Just something gentle, something solid.

“Then don’t go back,” he said. “Come to my place. Just for tonight.”

“You think your mom wants some burnt-out girl stinking up her guest room?”

“I think my mom loves you,” he said simply. “And I think you’re not a burnt-out anything. You’re just tired.”

Your eyes stung suddenly, like the truth had crawled under your skin.

Kevin stood and held his hand out to you. “Let’s get out of here. My house. Blankets. Pizza rolls. No pressure.”

You stared at his hand. It was kind of calloused—guitar fingers—but steady. Steady in a way nothing else in your life was.

You let him pull you up.

And for once, you didn’t feel like escaping. You just felt like going home—with him.