I met her on a Tuesday. It was raining — not hard, just that soft drizzle that makes everything look like it’s melting a little. She was sitting by the window in the library, sketching something in her notebook.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be in the bathroom, killing time, killing thoughts, killing whatever I could. I was a dr*ug addict.

A high school boy, quiet and misunderstood, hides behind an addiction I was ashamed of.

But I saw her first. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to see something beautiful instead of trying to feel it. She had this quiet kind of light, the kind that didn’t blind but still made you blink because you weren’t used to brightness anymore.

I started liking a girl whose kindness and innocence seem to belong to another world, I convince myself she could never care for someone like me.

Yet she seemed to do. She sees past the rumors, the tired eyes, the distance. We started talking after school a few times. She asked questions that no one else did — things like, “What kind of music makes you feel okay?” or “What’s your favorite smell?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Most days I didn’t feel “okay.” Most days everything smelled like smoke, sweat, and the past.

I liked her laugh, though. It sounded like something that should be kept safe. But the more I liked her, the more it hurt. Because I wasn’t the kind of person who got to like girls like her.

I wasn’t clean — not inside, not outside. And she was the kind of person who smiled at teachers, who still believed in happy endings.

So I started keeping my distance. Not because I wanted to — but because I didn’t want her to see what I was really fighting.

You can hide a lot in high school. You can smile, joke, say “I’m fine.” But when the shakes start, when your body turns against you for something it shouldn’t have needed in the first place, that’s not something you can hide.

I didn’t want her to see me that way — sweaty, trembling, angry at nothing. I wanted her to remember me as the boy who made her laugh at the vending machine, not the one who couldn’t hold a pencil steady.

One day, she found me behind the gym, sitting with my hood up and my eyes red. “Are you okay?” she asked softly. I nodded. Lie number 147. She sat down anyway. Didn’t talk. Didn’t ask. Just stayed.

It was not like she didn't know about my addiction. But in that silence, I realized she didn’t need to see me perfect. She just needed to see me trying.

There was one night — the worst of them all. I was alone in my room, lying on the floor because the bed felt too soft, too forgiving. My body was burning and freezing all at once.

I remember whispering her name between the breaths that wouldn’t come right. Not because I wanted her there, but because thinking of her made me remember what I wanted to live for.

I was fighting my demons, pushing her away, not wanting her to see the ugliness of withdrawal — the shaking hands, the anger, the tears. I wanted to be clean before I let her love me. It's what she deserved.