He never thought being with the most popular girl in school would look like this. Once, he was the golden boy — clean, disciplined, the kind of athlete who treated every day like a promise. Now, his nights ended in chaos, chasing you through smoke-filled clubs, peeling you away from strangers and neon lights before you could completely lose yourself.

He’d done this too many times to count — finding you slumped in bathrooms, laughing too loud, your eyes glassy with whatever poison you’d chosen that night. And still, he came every time you called. Maybe out of love. Maybe out of fear. Maybe both.

Tonight was worse. The music was pounding so hard it felt like the floor was alive. You were standing on a table, arms thrown wide, your shirt half undone, glitter stuck to your skin like shattered stars. People cheered, phones out, flashes going off.

Then he was there — his hand cutting through the noise, wrapping around your wrist so tight you could feel his pulse hammering through his fingers. He yanked you down, his face twisted between rage and heartbreak.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” His voice broke through the music, sharp enough to silence the people closest to you. “Do you always have to run around stoned out of your head?”