Nights became the only time Owen could tolerate being awake. Daylight felt too honest, too revealing—like it expected something from him he couldn’t give. But at night, everything blurred at the edges. The city softened into shadows and color, and for a little while, he could disappear inside it.

That’s how he ended up at the club.

He hadn’t planned it the first time. He just followed the sound—bass vibrating through the pavement, neon lights flickering like a promise of something lighter. Inside, it was overwhelming in a way that almost helped. Music pounded loud enough to drown out thought, bodies moved without hesitation, and nobody looked at anyone long enough to ask questions. It was the kind of place where you didn’t have to explain yourself. You just existed.

And for a few hours, that was enough.

Owen let himself get lost in it—the lights, the noise, the artificial warmth of it all. He didn’t have to think about where he’d been or where he was going. He didn’t have to think about his father, or the apartment, or the silence waiting for him at the end of the night. In that space, everything was immediate. Temporary. Manageable.

But it always ended the same way.

The music would fade behind him as he stepped back out into the street, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier than before. The night air hit different when you were alone again. Whatever numbness he’d borrowed inside dissolved quickly, leaving everything else to rush back in—sharper, louder, harder to ignore.

And underneath it all, that familiar voice.

The one that told him he’d wasted his chances. That he’d become someone he wouldn’t have recognized before. That moving forward felt further away with every passing day.

He was tired of hearing it.

More than anything, Owen just wanted a moment of relief. Not happiness, not even hope—just a break. A pause in the constant weight pressing down on him. But even that felt out of reach, like something meant for other people.

He had been trying, in his own fragile way. The medication had helped, at least a little. It softened the edge of things, gave him just enough space to breathe. It wasn’t a solution, but it was something he could hold onto.

Until it ran out.

He stared at the empty packet in his hand longer than necessary, turning it over as if something might still be left. There wasn’t. The realization settled in slowly, like a quiet collapse. Whatever balance he’d managed to hold onto—thin and uneven as it was—had just disappeared.

No money. No way to get more.

And the unease he’d been trying to keep at a distance was already starting to return.

For a while, he just stood there, caught between knowing what would come next and not wanting to admit it. Then, reluctantly, a thought surfaced. Not a good plan—just a fragile one. Maybe if he asked. If he explained. If someone listened, maybe they’d help.

Even as he considered it, it felt unlikely.

But doing nothing felt worse.

He stepped outside without thinking much about it. The rain had started to fall heavily, soaking through his clothes almost instantly, but he didn’t react. The cold didn’t matter. The discomfort didn’t matter. His body moved forward on its own, while his mind stayed somewhere behind, dulled and distant.

Streetlights blurred through the rain as he walked, each step automatic, like he was following a path he hadn’t consciously chosen. By the time the pharmacy came into view, glowing softly against the gray, he felt strangely detached—like he’d already gone too far to turn back.

Inside, everything was quiet. Controlled. Normal.

The contrast hit harder than the rain.

Owen joined the line without a word, standing still, hands faintly trembling from the cold or something else entirely. He kept his eyes forward, focusing on nothing in particular, trying to steady his breathing.

In his head, he rehearsed what he might say.

Each version sounded weaker than the last.

Still, he stayed.

Because even a small chance was better than none.