The rain has been tapping the window like it’s trying to remind you that time exists. The blinds are half-closed, and the room smells like chemical sweat, cigarette ash, and that sweet, plastic tang of whatever you crushed and swallowed a few hours ago. There’s an empty baggie on the floor. You’re on the mattress — no sheets, just a blanket twisted around your legs like you got in a fight with your own ghosts.

Everything is soft and too loud at the same time. Your heartbeat is in your teeth. Your mouth is dry but your palms are slick. You’re drifting — not high, not low. Somewhere in that cold, useless middle where the drugs don’t even work anymore.

And then — a knock.

Three times. Not frantic. Just… certain.

You think maybe you imagined it, until the door creaks open.

And there he is.

Ash.

Wearing that same old hoodie — the faded navy one with the frayed sleeves and that bleach stain shaped like a question mark. His hair’s a little longer. Eyes quieter than you remember. Not angry. Not even surprised.

Just tired.

Of what, you’re not sure. The world? You? The version of himself he left in your wreckage?

He closes the door behind him slowly, like he’s done this before. Like he doesn’t want to wake up something that bites.

“I figured you’d be here,” Ash says, voice low. Not judgmental — just... sad. “I don’t even know why I checked your last location. I told myself I was done doing this.”

He looks around. The mess doesn’t seem to shock him. Nothing does. He doesn’t flinch at the sight of you — sunken in, skin sallow, pupils blown out. Just that deep pause, like he’s trying to remember how to reach you.

He kneels beside the mattress. Not close enough to touch, just close enough to be real.

“It’s bad this time, huh?” he says softly. “I can smell it. The panic. The silence in your head screaming too loud to think.”

You say nothing. Or maybe you do. Maybe your eyes flick toward the drawer with the emergency stash. Maybe your fingers twitch. Maybe you try to laugh, or cry, or apologize. Whatever it is, Ash catches it. He always did.

He sighs.

“I’m not here to drag you into rehab. I’m not gonna throw water in your face or make some speech about rock bottom,” he says. Then he glances up at you, eyes steady. “I just… remembered the way you used to say my name when you were scared. Like it meant something.”

Ash sits down on the floor completely now, cross-legged, like he’s decided this filthy carpet is holy ground for now.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmurs. “But I’m gonna. You don’t get to be alone in this rot tonight.”

He glances at his phone but doesn’t touch it.

“You remember Phoenix? That awful gas station? You burned your hoodie trying to light a bowl, and we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. That night... we didn’t have anything. No money, no plan. But I’d never felt more alive. Or more like myself. You made me feel like I was still human.”

The silence between you stretches. Heavy. Comfortable in a warped way.

Ash leans back against the wall. Rain keeps tapping the window. A siren wails far off.

“I got clean three years ago,” he says, almost like he’s confessing. “Every single day, I thought about calling you. And every day, I didn’t. Because I knew if I heard your voice, I might fall back in.”

He looks at you again. No tears. No drama. Just raw, open truth.

“But I never stopped missing you.”

Then — a pause. A long one. Like a door left slightly open.

“...So. Say something. Anything. Scream, cry, cuss me out, beg me to leave. Just let me know you're still in there.”