I was too aware of how fragile everything was—how easy it would be to lose it all, even Kit.And that fucked with my head more than anything else.Because she wasn’t just someone I loved.She was my person.The one thing I needed more than the music, more than the fame I had never asked for, and more than any version of myself the world wanted to mold me into.
We didn’t fall in love the way people write about it.We grew into it, let it unfold around us like a song we didn’t realize we were creating together until the melody started sinking into our skin.It was intense—consuming.It was touches that lingered too long, kisses that left us breathless, nights that felt like forever.
It was intense and everything anyone could want, but I didn’t have the tools to protect it.I didn’t know how to shield us from what came next—from the pressure, from the noise, from the expectations that demanded I become someone else entirely.
They—my agent and my manager—didn’t want who I was.They wanted the version of me that looked good on stage.The image.The fantasy.The rockstar with the smirk, the abs, and the voice that could seduce stadiums.The heartthrob who played broken just enough to be interesting.They wanted someone who could have anyone—who would have anyone—and of course, someone like that couldn’t hold onto his everything.
That guy?That guy always loses the one thing that matters.And I pretended to play the part ...until pretending blurred into becoming.I became the one person she never wanted me to be, and she hated me for it.
I lost her.
But even after she rejected me—more like after I fucked it all up—I knew that no matter how far I drifted, no matter who I touched or fucked or tried to feel something with, there was no version of my life where Kit wasn’t the gravity I needed to return to.
Even now, after the silence, after the distance, and after the choices that carved years between us ...she’s still in me.
Threaded through every note I play, stitched into the lyrics I try to write and never finish.
She’s the ache behind every song I haven’t released.
The woman I taste in the quiet hours before sleep.
When the world stills and there’s no one left to distract me, she’s there—pressed against the backs of my eyelids, mouth parted, eyes filled with all the things we never said.She appears in flashes, in gaps, in the slide of her name through my mind like a lyric I’ll never forget.Sometimes she’s smiling, other times she’s crying.Most nights, she’s staring at me with that look: the one that made me feel like she saw every fractured part of me and still fucking wanted it.
Using her as an excuse for my addiction?Yeah ...that’s the part I can’t forgive myself for.It’s shitty.Selfish.And fucked up beyond reason.But back then, numbing myself was the only way I knew how to survive without tearing my skin off.She was gone.I was hollow.
The silence that followed her absence was unbearable.So, I filled it with whatever I could find.Substances.Noise.Women I didn’t care about.Nights I can’t remember.
And now ...
Now I’m here, sober and raw, trying to relearn how to be a human without a crutch.No filters.No haze.Just skin, memory, and regret.Just me—stone cold—and all the shit I buried rising back up like it never left.Like she never left.Like I never fucking let her go.
How am I supposed to survive that?
How am I supposed to wake up every day, put one foot in front of the other, write songs, and sit in studios, pretending like I’m okay when even now—after everything—she’s still in me?Still pressed into my bloodstream.
Still tangled in my nerves.
Still fucking there, like she never once let go.
And the worst part?
I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know how to carry it without burning.
I don’t know how to live with her ghost and still call it living.
Which is why I don’t respond to the email.
I shut the computer, pressing the lid down as if it might prevent everything from spilling over.
This ...this is the edge.
I should call my sponsor.I should go to therapy.I should do anything except sit in this ache and let it turn into something reckless.
Because the craving is already curling in my gut, dragging me toward two equally destructive options—search for a dealer or try to find Kit.
Either one would wreck me.
