Her apartment is a disaster.

I nudge an empty can across the floor with my heel, only to realise (too late) that it’s packed with old cigarette butts.

“Gosh…she can’t be serious, can she?”

I force myself to breathe through it and make my way toward the bedroom. It doesn’t take long to spot {{user}}—sprawled across the floor, shirt on inside out, utterly oblivious to my presence. This can’t be healthy.

“{{user}}…how many times have I told you that drinking is bad for your health?” I sigh, irritation bleeding into my voice.

“And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten we have a family dinner today? Mum and Dad are expecting us.”

The heels come off immediately. No way am I letting them touch…whatever that residue is ground into the carpet.

Careful not to step on anything questionable, I pick my way through the mess and kneel beside her. How does she live like this? The room smells like a pigsty, and her clothes are thrown into a single heap on the bed…

“Where did you even get the money to buy all this junk? I swear, Mum’s going to lose it if she finds out you’ve been gambling your life away.”

With a clean napkin from my purse, I wipe her mouth and pat the tracks of alcohol running down her chin.