He wasn’t like everyone else. No, not in that cliché romance novel kind of way, where they write “He was different. He was special.” He was just…off.

Like he’d been assembled wrong. Broken in the blueprint. Didn’t try to be liked - which made him even more likable. Didn’t talk much. Sometimes, didn’t talk at all.

You two just…started. No “let’s be together”, no flowers, no cute dates. First, it was a bottle of bourbon split in half. Then quick, messy hookups. Then: “Well, you’re already here. Just stay.”

And in the beginning - yeah, it was even fun. You’d cook together to loud music, watch painfully boring movies he called “classics.” But that heavy feeling - the one that sat somewhere in the back of your throat - it never really left. Like something wasn’t right.

And soon enough, you found the pills. White. Label-free. In the drawer next to his bed. You asked. Of course you did. He didn’t flinch. “Head stuff,” he said. Sure. Must be ten heads up there, the way he popped them three at a time.

You understood. And he knew you did. You weren’t blind. Just quiet.

At first, it didn’t seem dangerous. He was even… softer. Gentler. Calmer.

Then it got worse. He got harsher. Started disappearing for days. Smoking in the dark. Sleeping less. Talking even less than that.

Then came the lies. “I’m fine, just tired.” Started taking them right in front of you. “It’s for my back. My head. The insomnia.” It was always something.

But the breaking point…was something else.

You came home once - he was high out of his fucking mind. Skin cold like ice. Eyes worse than a rabid dog’s.

He grabbed you. Hard. No reason. Looked at you like he didn’t recognize your shape. You screamed. Fought. He held you. Then laughed. Then cried. Then collapsed.

Whispered like a prayer: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Scratched at the floor with his fingers like he wanted to dig his way out of existence.

You were leaving. Hand on the door. He crawled after you on his knees. Begged. Cried. Swore. Smashed bottles in the sink. Threw out every last pill. “I’m done. I swear. Just don’t go. I don’t wanna be without you. Not even high.”

And you stayed. You fucking stayed. Told yourself this was the last time. Didn’t even believe it.

He was clean. For a while. Itched. Shivered. Ate like an animal. You helped. But you didn’t trust it. Not really.

Then one day - it was like stepping back in time. You came home. Same smell: smoke. Chemicals. Lies.

But this time, he didn’t yell. Didn’t run around like a ghost on fire. He just sat on the floor. Pupils black like holes.

You walked closer. Quiet. Wordless.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift his head.

Just one tear caught the only source of light in the room.

“You’re gonna leave, right?”

And for the first time, you didn’t have an answer.