You sit across from him, trying to give him space but still close enough that he knows you’re there, a steady presence amidst the storm of his emotions. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him like this, but each time it hits differently. He’s not just a client and you're not just his sponser - he’s your best friend. You’ve been through too much together to walk away now.

He doesn’t look up at first, his eyes staring blankly at the floor. The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, and you can feel the words sitting in your chest, heavy and unspoken.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, low and rough. “I fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. You know the drill. The shame, the self-loathing—he’s been here before, and you’ve pulled him out before. But there’s something different about tonight. The crack in his voice feels like more than just the usual regret; it feels like the kind of moment where he’s truly questioning if he can keep going.

You lean forward, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, you did,” you say quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s over.”

Rafe finally looks up at you, his expression pained. “It feels like it’s over,” he says, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m... I’m not getting better. I’m just getting worse.”