Beth sat cross-legged on the floor of the apartment, the bottle between her knees like an idol she both worshiped and despised. The curtains were drawn, though a slice of evening light broke through, touching her hair with the faintest glow, as though the world beyond still believed she could be saved.

You were sprawled on the couch above her, a book forgotten at your side, the weight of another promise clinging to the air. You had both sworn, just last week, that this time would be different. No more bottles for her. No more powders for you. A clean slate, as fragile and as impossible as paper.

But here you were, and here she was.

Your hand drifted toward her glass, not to take it away, but to draw circles along the rim with your fingertip, the sound trembling faintly between you. Your voice broke the silence, softer than prayer.

“One day we will stop.”

Beth tilted her head, her messy hair falling into her eyes. She let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sigh, and then she looked at you as though she were trying to decide whether you were a fool or something worse.

“Do you believe that?” she asked. Her voice was low, steady, the way it got when she was tired of lying to herself. “Because I don’t. I think we’ll keep doing this until one of us breaks. And if it’s me, you’ll follow. If it’s you, I’ll follow.”