Josie stirred, the edges of sleep clinging to her like a thick fog. Her body felt impossibly heavy, as if the weight of the night had sunk deep into her bones. She lay there, disoriented, hovering in that fragile space between sleep and waking, where everything felt muted, dreamlike. Her head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, and there was a strange heaviness in her chest, like the remnants of a nightmare she couldn't quite remember.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting against the soft light filtering through the curtains. The room felt distant, foreign, as though she didn't quite belong to it anymore. Her bed, once so familiar, seemed to cradle her like a stranger. Each breath was shallow, uneven, as if her lungs couldn't fully expand, leaving her dizzy and slightly nauseous. The sheets beneath her were cool and smooth, yet her skin felt clammy, sticky with sweat.

Her limbs lay splayed across the bed, lifeless, too drained to move. It was an exhaustion that went deeper than sleep could fix—an exhaustion that seemed to gnaw at the edges of her mind. She lay there, trying to connect with her body, trying to summon the energy to move, but the weight pressing down on her was suffocating. Her mouth was dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of it, and the sour aftertaste from last night lingered, making her stomach turn.

Slowly, the fog in her mind began to lift, but with it came a flood of confusion. She swallowed, her throat raw, and her fingers twitched against the sheets as if testing their own ability to function. Something wasn't right. She felt a gnawing sense of disorientation, like she'd been dropped into her life from some other place. The dull throb at the back of her skull pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a reminder that she wasn't fully present yet.

She turned her head, her muscles stiff and aching from the movement. The act alone left her breathless, and for a second, the room spun, like she was on the edge of blacking out again. She shut her eyes tightly against the wave of dizziness, letting it pass before she dared to open them again.

Her gaze landed on the bedside table, and that's when she noticed it. Her phone, suspiciously plugged into a charger, sat there next to a bottle of water. A chill crept down her spine. She didn't remember doing that. Her last memory was a disjointed blur of the party, then the car...

A flicker of something—guilt, shame, maybe fear—pricked at her, but it was muffled, pushed aside by the overwhelming numbness. The quiet of the room pressed in on her, too loud in its silence. She shifted, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the phone. Her fingers felt clumsy, the simple act of lifting it from the nightstand requiring more focus than it should have.

The screen lit up, and her stomach sank when she saw the time: 13:07. The day was already half gone, but her mind still clung to the night, to those hazy fragments she couldn't quite piece together. Josie stared at the time for a moment, her heart pounding too fast, like her body was stuck in the aftermath of something it couldn't shake.

She glanced at the water bottle, unopened, pristine, waiting for her. Whoever had left it there knew exactly what she would need this morning, and that thought alone sent another ripple of unease through her.

The memory of Mike's worried face flashed briefly in her mind, but it felt far away, like she'd seen it through a thick pane of glass. How had she ended up here, in bed, safe, when her last clear memory was of stumbling into the cool night air, the weight of the world crashing in on her? The questions gnawed at her, but her mind was still too sluggish to catch up.

For now, she could only focus on the present—the dull ache in her chest, the heaviness in her limbs, the way her body felt like it was betraying her with every pulse of blood in her temples. She wanted to forget, but the emptiness she woke up with was somehow worse than the chaos.

Josie decided to stand, though her body protested with a wave of dizziness that almost knocked her back into the bed. She braced herself, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress, and took a deep breath. Her legs felt wobbly, unsure beneath her weight, but she forced herself upright, instinctively reaching for the bottle of water. Her hands trembled as she twisted off the cap, the subtle shaking unnerving her more than the dizziness. She brought the bottle to her lips, gulping down the cool liquid like it might wash away the remnants of the night clinging to her skin.

That's when she noticed it. She was still in the clothes she'd worn to the party— the same jewelry, the same dress—except her socks and shoes were gone, discarded somewhere along the way. A surge of embarrassment rushed through her. She hadn't even undressed before collapsing into bed. Josie cringed at the thought of Mike seeing her like that—so far gone.

Her eyes flicked to the table across the room, and her stomach twisted painfully. The small plate with methamphetamine dust all over it from the night before sat there, the remnants of her choices stark against the emptiness of the morning. Her breath caught in her throat, memories of the night crashing into her with an intensity that made her head pound.

The party. The girls. Jesse's concerned face. Mike.

Mike's hands on her face, his voice strained as he tried to pull her back into reality. The look of disappointment in his eyes when he saw what she'd done. The panic. The overwhelming fear as everything spiraled out of control. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as the memories collided with the present, the weight of it almost suffocating.

Josie's eyes narrowed on the plate, rage bubbling up from the pit of her stomach. It was a different kind of anger—one laced with guilt, shame, and an exhaustion so deep it felt like she might drown in it. Without thinking, she grabbed the ugly thing, her fingers trembling as she clutched it tightly. She stormed to the sink, barely aware of her legs carrying her there, and with a guttural cry, hurled the plate into the basin.

The sound of ceramic smashing against metal echoed through the kitchen, sharp and jarring in the otherwise still room. The shards scattered, a few clattering back onto the counter, but Josie didn't care. She stared at the broken mess in the sink, her chest heaving, hands still trembling from a combination of adrenaline and exhaustion.

Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, and for a moment, she gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, feeling like she might collapse under the weight of everything. But she didn't. Instead, she stood there, staring down at the wreckage, her heart pounding against her ribs, her mind racing with fragments of last night, of Mike, of the look in his eyes as he dragged her out of the spiral she'd thrown herself into.

She decided to take a quick shower, hoping the warm water would wash away the grime of the night, both physically and mentally. In the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes, her hands still shaking slightly, and stepped under the stream. The water hit her skin, scalding at first, but she welcomed the heat, letting it cascade over her like it could cleanse her from the inside out. For a brief moment, she felt grounded—almost human again.

But then the dizziness crept back in. Her vision blurred, and the walls of the shower seemed to tilt. She stumbled forward, gripping the tiled wall for support as nausea twisted her stomach. A sharp pain shot through her gut, and she barely made it to the toilet before she threw up, dry heaving as her body rejected what little remained inside her. She gasped for air between retches, the cold porcelain a stark contrast to the heat of the shower.

When the sickness finally subsided, she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand, feeling drained, fragile. But she wasn't about to let herself fall apart again. Not today. She rinsed her mouth with water from the sink and, still light-headed, stepped back into the shower, determined to finish what she'd started. The water no longer felt comforting, but she forced herself through the motions—washing her hair, scrubbing her skin—trying to reset, to feel somewhat normal again.

After drying off, Josie got dressed in a pair of leggings and a loose sweater, something simple and comfortable. She stood in front of the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, almost unrecognizable. Her skin was pale, her eyes dull and shadowed with exhaustion. The hollowness of her cheeks, the way her hair hung limp and damp around her face—everything about her seemed off, a stark reminder of the night she'd barely survived.

She touched her face, fingers tracing the faint smudges of mascara under her eyes, the slight puffiness that had settled in. The person staring back at her didn't feel like her. It was someone else—someone who had let things spiral too far out of control. Someone who had hurt herself, hurt the people she cared about, and now had to face the consequences of it all.

Her throat tightened as the weight of it pressed down on her again, but she swallowed hard, forcing the tears back. She couldn't break down again. Not right now.

She stood there for a moment more, staring at her reflection, her heart pounding with a dull, aching throb. She didn't like what she saw. In fact, she hated it. The weak, pale version of herself, the one who let life slip through her fingers like sand. Something inside her snapped, like a thread pulled too tight. She couldn't just stand there any longer, staring at the mess she'd made of herself—of her life.

She stormed out of the bathroom, her footsteps heavy, determined. First, she went straight to the kitchen. The plate from last night was still in the sink, shattered, bits of crystal meth smeared across the ceramic shards. She froze for a second, her mind flashing back to the moment she'd thrown it, the sound of glass splintering echoing her frustration. For a split second, she was tempted to scrape the remnants of meth together, just one last hit to make everything fade. The thought clawed at her brain, familiar, seductive.

Her fingers twitched, hovering over the broken pieces. She could feel the pull deep in her bones, the itch in her veins that begged her to give in. But the anger, the hidden anger that had been simmering for a long time, flared up, burning through the temptation like wildfire.

"No," she muttered under her breath, teeth gritted. Her hand shot out and grabbed the plate pieces with reckless force, shoving them into the trash, her movements rough, almost violent. She didn't care if the shards cut into her palms. She deserved the sting. She deserved worse for letting it get this far.

The plate gone, she opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the bong, the one she hadn't touched in weeks but kept around "just in case." It was partly coated in dust, a relic of her old ways, another reminder of the spiral she thought she could control. She stared at it for a long second, her breath shallow.

Her fingers clenched the neck of the bong tightly, knuckles white with tension. She hated this too, hated how she'd clung to these lifelines like they would save her when all they did was drag her deeper into the hole she was digging for herself. With a sudden burst of frustration, she also threw it out into the bin, ignoring the hollow thud it made as it hit the bottom.

But it didn't stop there. Her anger was building, growing with every step, with every item she touched. She stormed into the bedroom and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Reaching under the mattress, she found the sock—the one she kept her stash in, like some dirty little secret, as if she was a teenager again in her parents' home. She pulled it out, her heart hammering against her ribs. She ripped it open, watching as the baggies tumbled onto the floor—pills, powders, little capsules of temporary escape, all of it.

Her chest tightened with fury as she stared at them, her breath ragged. How had she let this happen? How had she become this person—someone who hid drugs in a sock under her bed like a scared teenager?

But for a second, her resolve wavered. She could feel it again—the pull, the way her body ached for release, for the numbness that would make it all disappear. The anger. The guilt. The crushing weight of her failure. She could make it all go away. Just one pill. Just a few lines.

Her hand hovered over the stash, her fingers shaking as they reached out. It would be so easy.

"No!" She yelled suddenly, her voice cracking. She grabbed the sock, the baggies, and stomped to the bathroom. She flung the drugs into the toilet, flushing them with a quick, final gesture, watching as the water swirled them away. A sick, twisted satisfaction followed as the evidence of her weakness vanished down the drain. She stood there, breathing heavily, her body trembling with the force of her rage. This wasn't who she wanted to be. This wasn't who she was supposed to be.

She grabbed a sponge and cleaning spray from under the sink and went to work, scrubbing the counters, the floors, the kitchen tiles—scrubbing until her hands ached, until her skin was raw, bleeding, mixing with the fluids. The smell of bleach filled the air, sharp and stinging. The rhythmic sound of her scrubbing only fueled the storm raging inside her.

She hated herself. Every wipe of the sponge was a reminder of how far she'd fallen, of every bad decision, every moment she'd given in instead of fighting. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Her breathing grew ragged, her hands moving faster, the sponge slipping, her knuckles hitting the counter with a sharp pain. But she didn't stop. She couldn't. Not until it was gone—not until she'd erased every trace of her failure.

"Stupid," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Her movements became frantic, her vision blurring with unshed tears, the anger building into a suffocating knot in her chest. She scrubbed harder, as if she could somehow scrub herself clean of the shame, the guilt. As if she could erase the version of herself that had made all these terrible choices.

She slammed the sponge down on the counter, her hands trembling with frustration, and let out a frustrated scream, her body tense, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt like she was going to explode, like the anger was too much to hold inside anymore.

And then, suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

The knock on the door felt like a punch to Josie's gut, pulling her violently out of her frantic cleaning spree. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she stood paralyzed, her body still vibrating with leftover adrenaline and rage. The knuckles of her hand were bloodied from scrubbing too hard, and the sponge lay abandoned on the counter, soaked in bleach.

Another knock, this time firmer.

Her mind raced, trying to piece together who it could be. Her heart, already pounding from the exertion of her breakdown, thudded even harder. Mike? Jesse? Someone else? She hadn't even checked her phone yet, hadn't seen if anyone had tried to reach her since last night.

Wiping her hands on the front of her sweater, Josie moved slowly toward the door, her bare feet padding quietly across the floor. Each step felt heavy, like she was wading through quicksand. She reached the door, her hand trembling as she rested it on the knob.

Whoever was on the other side waited, silent now, but patient. She felt their presence like a weight pressing against the door. Her throat tightened, a mixture of dread and hope swirling in her chest. What if it was Mike? What would she even say to him? What if he knew everything?

Her heart stuttered as she unlocked the door, opening it just a crack.

It wasn't Mike.

It was Jesse.

He stood there, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his face a mix of concern and something softer, something that almost looked like guilt. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Josie felt her stomach twist, the remnants of her anger and shame battling with the relief of seeing him standing there.

To her, Jesse's presence in the doorway felt like a lifeline and a threat all at once. His concern—genuine, palpable—scratched at the raw wounds Josie had been trying to ignore since she woke up, wounds she'd been hoping to scrub away with bleach and self-loathing. But now, standing there in front of him, she felt everything that had been simmering under the surface start to bubble over.

She let him in, and the weight of his gaze—searching, understanding—felt unbearable. His eyes swept across the room, the water with bleach spilled everywhere, the abandoned cleaning supplies, the rawness in her hands and her face. She saw the flicker of pity in his expression, and it was like gasoline on a fire she hadn't realized was already burning.

"You good?" Jesse asked, his voice low and careful, like he was stepping through a minefield.

Her throat tightened. She could feel the lie—"Yeah, I'm fine"—clinging to the back of her tongue, but it refused to come out. She wasn't fine. She was nowhere near fine. And Jesse could see it. His eyes, those sad, knowing eyes, told her he already knew.

"No," she rasped, the admission spilling out before she could stop it. "I'm not."

Jesse nodded, and it was that nod, that quiet, understanding nod, that made something inside Josie twist violently. He stepped closer, hesitating like he wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, but he held back. His presence should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like a spotlight shining on all her failures, all her weaknesses.

"What happened, Jo?" he asked, his voice a gentle whisper.

The question cracked her open. The memories of last night flooded in—her reckless descent into the high, the party, the way Mike had dragged her out, his hands gripping her arms like he was holding her together.

"I messed up," she whispered, the words like acid in her mouth. "I really messed up."

Jesse didn't flinch, didn't rush to comfort her. He just stood there, absorbing her words, his face softening with that infuriating sympathy, like he was trying to hold space for her pain without adding to it. But Josie didn't want his pity. She didn't want him to look at her like she was fragile, like she was broken.

"I know," he said quietly, and the sadness in his voice was like a punch to her gut.

Her hands balled into fists, the trembling returning. He knows. Of course, he knows. Mike must have told him. Mike, with his steady eyes and his firm grip, had probably gone to Jesse, worried about her like she was some lost cause, like she was a child who couldn't handle her own life. The thought of it made her skin crawl.

"What did Mike tell you?" she snapped, the anger bubbling up, sharp and hot. Jesse blinked, clearly taken aback by the shift in her tone.

"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"What did Mike tell you?" she repeated, her voice rising, fists clenched so hard her nails dug into her palms. "Did he run to you, tell you I'm falling apart, that I can't handle my shit? That I'm weak?"

"Josie, no—" Jesse started, but she cut him off, her voice shaking with fury now.

"Don't lie to me!" she yelled, the words tumbling out faster than she could control them. "He's the one who dragged me out last night, right? He looked at me like I was some fucking broken toy! And now you're here—what, to check on me? To make sure I haven't OD'd? Is that it? You both think I'm weak, don't you?"

"No," Jesse insisted, stepping toward her, his hands coming up in a gesture of peace. "That's not what this is. Mike didn't say anything to me, Josie. I'm just here because I was—"

"Because you were what?" she interrupted, her voice a wild mix of anger and something deeper, something more vulnerable. "Worried? I don't need your worry, Jesse! I don't need you or Mike playing babysitter while I fall apart. I don't need anyone!"

Her chest was heaving now, her words laced with venom, but underneath, there was something else—fear, shame. She could feel it creeping up, twisting her insides, making her lash out at the one person who was actually standing there, trying to help. But she couldn't stop. She was too far gone, the anger consuming her, taking over.

"Jo—" Jesse tried again, his voice softer now, but that only made her angrier. The softness felt like condescension, like pity, and she couldn't stand it.

"Don't, Jesse. Just don't." She pointed to the door, her finger shaking. "Get out."

He stared at her, his eyes wide, confused, hurt. "What—?"

"Get out!" she screamed, her voice cracking, the force of it reverberating through the room. "I don't need you! I don't need anyone ! Just go!"

Jesse's face crumpled with confusion, his mouth opening and closing like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come. For a long, painful moment, they stood there, the air between them thick with everything unspoken. Then, finally, Jesse took a step back, his face pale and drawn, hurt flickering behind his eyes.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He moved toward the door, his shoulders slumped, looking like he'd been punched in the gut. "Okay, Jo. I'm… I'm going."

He turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him, the sound of it like a gunshot in the silence.

The second he was gone, Josie felt the weight of it all slam into her, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her legs gave out. She was alone again, and this time, it felt worse than before. The rage was gone, but in its place was a hollow, aching emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole.

Josie sat slumped on the cold tile floor, her back against the kitchen cabinets, the remains of her outburst scattered around her like debris from a wreckage. Her breathing was shallow, but her heart thudded in her chest like a jackhammer. Rage, guilt, confusion—they all swirled inside her like a tornado, but she was too drained to even cry anymore. She just stared blankly at the bleach-soaked sponge on the counter, the chemical smell still lingering sharp in the air.

Jesse was gone. She had screamed at him, pushed him out the door with venom she didn't even realize she had. But it hadn't felt good. It hadn't given her the relief she thought it would. Now, all that was left was an empty apartment and the deafening sound of her own breathing.

Josie forced herself to move. She was tired—physically, mentally—but lying there in the aftermath felt worse. She dragged herself up onto shaky legs, looking around the kitchen. Her hands, still raw from scrubbing, hovered over the counters, aching with each movement. But she couldn't stop.

She grabbed the sponge again, wiping the counters down, her strokes slow but methodical, trying to erase any trace of her earlier meltdown. She scrubbed until her knuckles whitened and her arms burned, focusing on the repetitive motions like they were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

The apartment was too quiet. The absence of Jesse's presence, the absence of anyone, pressed against her like a physical weight. It was suffocating. She had driven him away—someone who cared about her—and for what? The anger she had thrown at him was misdirected, she knew that now, but it didn't make the knot of regret in her chest any easier to swallow.

Her stomach growled, pulling her from the endless loop of self-loathing. She realized she hadn't eaten all day, maybe even since yesterday. But there was barely anything in the fridge—just leftovers from when she had last bothered to go grocery shopping. She had nothing to feed herself, nothing to even care for herself properly. The hunger clawed at her, but it felt distant, overshadowed by the weight of everything else.

Opening the fridge, she stared at its near-empty shelves: a half-empty jar of tomato concentrate, some limp vegetables, and a carton of milk that was likely well past its expiration date. The sight of the tomato paste brought back a memory—back when she was too broke to afford proper meals and had lived off of cheap pasta. The thought of it made her feel hollow, but she needed something in her stomach, anything to ground herself.

She grabbed the jar and a nearly forgotten box of spaghetti from the cupboard. It was the last meal she could scrape together without venturing outside into the world, a world she wasn't ready to face just yet. The sound of the pasta hitting the boiling water was oddly comforting, and the monotonous act of stirring it became another mindless escape from the chaos inside her head.

Just keep moving, she told herself. Don't think too much. Don't fall apart.

But even as the steam from the pasta filled the kitchen, warming the air, her thoughts circled back to the confrontation with Jesse. The look on his face when she had screamed at him, accused him of seeing her as weak, burned into her memory. He'd been so confused, hurt even, and she'd thrown it all back in his face, assuming he knew about her addiction, that Mike had told him. But what if he hadn't? What if she had just attacked him for nothing, for trying to help her?

Why did I do that? Why do I keep doing this?

Her throat tightened as guilt gnawed at her, but she swallowed it down, pushing her emotions aside as she drained the pasta and scraped the last of the tomato concentrate into a small pan. She mixed in some water, stirring until it formed a thin, red sauce, the scent of oregano and stale tomatoes filling the air. It was far from appetizing, but it was sustenance, and right now, that's all she could manage.

As the sauce simmered, she stood at the stove, staring at the bubbles rising and popping in the pan, her mind wandering back to Jesse. What would he think of her now? Would he even come back? And if he did, could she face him after what she'd said? She had nearly kicked him out, screamed at him for seeing her as weak, for thinking she couldn't handle herself. But deep down, she knew that it wasn't Jesse she was angry with. It was herself.

The pasta, once mixed with the sauce, tasted like nothing. She sat at the kitchen table, shoveling bites into her mouth without tasting them, chewing mechanically. The food filled the gnawing emptiness in her stomach, but it did nothing for the emptiness in her soul. She wasn't eating because she was hungry—she was eating to keep herself from falling apart.

Her phone buzzed again from the counter, lighting up with another missed call. She glanced at it, feeling a pang of guilt as she saw Jesse's name flash across the screen, but she ignored it. It buzzed once more—a text this time—but she didn't bother checking.

She set her fork down, her appetite gone, and pushed the half-eaten bowl of pasta away from her. The weight of the day settled in her bones, pulling her down, making her feel heavy and exhausted. The apartment was dark now, the evening slipping into night, but Josie didn't bother turning on any lights. The darkness felt like a cocoon, wrapping her in solitude. She welcomed it.

Her phone buzzed one last time—a single notification lighting up the screen. She knew it was Jesse. He had called and texted enough times now, his concern clear. He probably wanted to know if she was okay, but she couldn't answer that question. She wasn't okay. She wasn't even close.

Her hand hovered over the phone, her thumb grazing the edge of the screen, but she couldn't bring herself to open the messages. Not now. She wasn't ready to explain herself, wasn't ready to face the reality of what had happened.

She pulled her hand away, leaving the phone on the counter, and sank back into her chair, staring at the empty space in front of her. The silence was oppressive, but she didn't break it. She didn't turn on the lights, didn't check her phone, didn't reach out to anyone. She just sat there, alone in the dark, letting the emptiness swallow her whole.