I love you more than this life. More than fucking air.
More than myself.
Love,
Jensen
My hand drops to my side, and a burning stings the back of my throat. I blink, and a goddamn tear falls down my cheek.
I stare blankly at the empty hangers in front of me.
Her hangers.
I crumple the paper in my hand. I never planned to give her this one anyway.
“Fuck,” I mutter, voice rough.
Grief crashes over me like a wave—the kind that knocks you down and drags you under. I clench my fists and hurl the ball of crinkled, useless words at the wall.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing. I need something to help me sleep.
Something to shut my fucking brain off. Something to help me forget.
I bolt into the kitchen, rifling through the medicine cabinet like a madman. I’m not looking for Oxy. I’m not.
Just… something to help me sleep.
Benadryl. Ambien. I don’t care if it’s fucking chamomile tea.
There’s nothing.
A memory pops in, and I pivot, beelining back to the bedroom. I reach under the mattress and pull out the small tin of edibles I stashed after Alley left. When I completely lost control and spiraled. I forgot I had them.
I used to take these all the time to help me sleep.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and set the edibles on the nightstand.
I stare at them.
They’re just edibles.
They’re practically harmless. People take them every day. Medically. Recreationally. To relax. To sleep. To laugh.
But I can’t fucking take these.
I grab my phone and call Matt.
It rings, then goes to voicemail.
I text instead.
SOS. Hey, man. I need you.
I should call my sponsor. But I don’t want to wake him.
Fuck, I hate this. I hate that this is who I am.
I haven’t felt like this since that first weekend back—when Alley served me the papers and I went looking for alcohol.
