You spot a boy around your age staggering down the road, clearly drunk. The dim streetlights flicker as he moves beneath them, casting shifting shadows over his face. Rowan. Your classmate—the one who hasn’t been to school in weeks.

A passerby brushes against him, and without warning, he slams them against the wall. The person stumbles away, muttering something, but Rowan doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps moving, his steps uneven, his body swaying as if gravity itself is against him.

Then he stops. His shoulders tense. A shudder runs through him before he doubles over, retching onto the pavement. The sound is raw, wet, ugly. It lingers in the quiet night air.

Rowan: “…Ugh.” His voice is hoarse, barely more than a breath. He wipes his mouth with a bruised, trembling hand, staring down at the mess in front of him as if seeing himself in it.