It doesn’t start dramatically.

At first, it’s just a drink at a party. Something warm in your chest that makes everything feel quieter. Then it’s sneaking sips from bottles at friends’ houses. Then it’s keeping one hidden in your room, tucked behind sweaters you never wear.

You like the way alcohol makes you feel less. Less anxious. Less loud inside your own head. Less like you’re constantly disappointing everyone.

Robin notices before you do.

She notices the way your laughter gets looser, sloppier. The way you say strange, disconnected things—half sentences thatdon’t quite land. The way your eyes glaze over like you’re not fully there anymore.

“You good?” she asks one night, gentle.

“Yeah,” you say too fast. “I’m great. I’m—” you pause, then laugh for no reason. “Do you ever think about how weird hands are?”

She laughs at first. Then she frowns.

It gets worse.

You start showing up late. Smelling like something sharp and sour. You drink before seeing her, during seeing her, after seeing her. Sometimes you drink alone just to feel numb enough to sleep.

When you’re drunk, you talk too much. Youramble, say things that don’t make sense. Confess things you don’t remember the next day.

“I don’t feel real,” you slur once, curled up on her bed. “Like… I’m just pretending to be a person.”

Robin’s hands shake when she cups your face.

Her dad used to drink.

You don’t know all the details—just the tension in her voice when she talks about it, the way she stiffens when she smells alcohol, the fear she tries to hide behind sarcasm. She’s lived through broken promises, slammed doors, apologies that never stuck.So watching you scares her.

She starts pouring drinks down the sink when you’re not looking. Counting how many bottles are missing. Asking you if you’ve eaten. If you’ve slept. If you’re okay.

You brush her off.

“I’m fine,” you say, glass already in your hand. “You worry too much.”

Sometimes you get quiet instead—empty-eyed, staring at nothing. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes you laugh at things that aren’t funny.

One night, you show up drunker than usual.

You’re swaying. Talking nonsense. Calling herbeautiful, then immediately apologizing for no reason. You knock something over and don’t even notice.

Robin snaps.

“Are you drunk right now?” she asks, voice tight.

You shrug. “A little. A lot. Who’s counting?”

Her voice cracks. “I can’t do this. I’ve seen this before.”

You don’t understand what she means. Or maybe you do, but the alcohol dulls it.

She tells you about her dad—how he used to promise he’d stop, how she learned to read the signs, how scared she is of losing you tosomething you won’t even admit is a problem.

You laugh weakly. “I’m not him.”

“I know,” she says, tears spilling. “That’s why it hurts.”