There’s half a jug of tequila sweating on the nightstand, and a chopped-up line drying on the back of my debit card. The A/C wheezes like it’s gasping for air—like it’s trying to breathe for the both of us. I should be asleep. But coke doesn’t let you sleep. It just lets you lie still and rot.
Suki’s spread out across the bed in my old t-shirt, mascara smudged like tears that never fell. Her leg twitches, caught somewhere between dreaming and detox. I can’t tell which. She was talking earlier—about New Mexico or Arizona—some desert full of cactuses, peace, no mirrors. Now she’s out cold. Thank God.
I can’t take the talking when the high fades. Gets too real. The weight of empty rooms presses in, louder than anything she could say.
Our thing wasn’t love—not the kind that saves you or makes you better. It was gravity. Pulling us down together, dragging us through a mess we both helped make. That counts for something, right?
We blamed everything—the past, the world, creepy uncles, slow-motion disasters. But really, we just kept showing up to a party long after the music died. The coke made us feel alive; the booze made the quiet bearable when the lies wore off.
Suki didn’t want to drink at first. Said it made her sad. Said coke made her jittery. But I’m charming when I’m high and stubborn when I’m drunk. Now she drinks with me—more than she ever wanted. So I don’t have to be alone.
I cut another line—not because I want it, but because my hands are shaking too much. I could touch her, but it feels wrong. Too soft, too quiet. She deserves better. But if she leaves, I’m stuck here with myself. And I don’t trust that guy in the mirror.
Months we’ve been caught in this spin. Telling ourselves next week will be different. We’ll slow down. Eat better. Get clean. But there’s always a reason to stay fucked up—celebrations, crashes, just Tuesdays.
I thought I was the smart one—the one keeping us afloat. But I’m the one who brings the poison. I’m the reason she wakes with red eyes and trembling hands. I’m not her man. I’m her dealer with a conscience too weak to quit.
I like her better like this—quiet, thin, needing me.
There’s a moment after the high—heart pounding, mouth dry, soul clawing to scream. That’s when the truth crashes in. Every time, I push it down with another drink, another line, another “you okay, baby?”
She nods. She wants me to say it back.
The TV drones on—some muted infomercial, knives or prayers. I watch the ceiling stain spread like mold. Suki coughs, whispers something like “don’t leave.”
I won’t. I can’t.
Because if she cleans up, if she gets free, if she remembers who she was before me—I’m done.
I pour the last of the tequila. Kiss her forehead like a priest giving last rites. Rack another line. And stay.
“Hey baby, let’s do another shot.”
“Okay.”
Because I’m not ready for the weight of empty rooms.
Because the lie’s still better than the silence.
Because this is love—our kind. Rotten, but ours.
— P.
