Magnus
Has it been four days or six since I last saw Alaric? The alcohol makes everything blur together.
My sheets still smell like him.
It’s faint now, buried under the sourness of sweat and stale whiskey, but it’s there. Clean soap, the faintest trace of his cologne. Alaric Hale—rich boy scent, precise and calm—something that doesn’t belong in a place like this.
I tell myself I should change the bed. I even pull the corner of the blanket up, stare at the pale sheets beneath. But my chest tightens, and I stop. I can’t bring myself to wash him away.
So I don’t. I just lie here and breathe him in like it’s oxygen.
My phone’s dead again. I could plug it in. I could see the missed calls piling up, the texts from Phoenix, the Wolves’ management, maybe even my agent. But the thought makes my stomach twist.
If I don’t look, then the world outside this apartment doesn’t exist. No practices missed, no lectures, no eyes watching me unravel. Just me and the quiet.
And the bottle.
It’s the only thing that doesn’t leave when I screw everything up.
The first swallow burns the way it always does. It’s a small, sharp punishment before the warmth sets in. Then it’s easier. The ache dulls. The air stops pressing against my lungs. I can almost pretend I’m fine.
That’s the lie I tell myself, anyway.
I used to hate the taste. Now it feels like muscle memory. My hand knows the shape of the glass, the tilt of the bottle. It’s become ritual: drink, breathe, forget.
I stare at the ceiling. The light bulb flickers, the kind of dull yellow that makes everything look sick. There’s a stack of empty takeout boxes on the counter, a pile of laundry in the corner. The air smells like cheap liquor and hopelessness.
I used to keep this place clean. I used to care.
A dry laugh scrapes my throat. Care about what? The team that’s probably already talking about trading me? The fans who’ll call me a waste of talent?
Or the man who looked me in the eye and said he’d never choose me?
The bottle’s half gone before I realize it. I pour another. My reflection in the black TV screen looks back at me—hollow eyes, messy hair, stubble too long. I look like someone who’s been losing a fight he started himself.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way he’d wrinkle his nose when I said something dumb. The way his voice went soft when he was tired. The way his lips trembled when he said it was over.
It hurts to think, so I drink.
It hurts to breathe, so I drink.
It hurts to remember the look on his face—that mix of guilt and distance—so I drink until I can’t see it anymore.
It’s not even about getting drunk now. It’s about quiet. It’s about turning down the noise in my head until I can stand to exist in this skin again. Where the world could stop spinning for just a moment so I can rest.
But the quiet never lasts. It never does.
My chest starts to feel tight, like I can’t get enough air. The room spins a little when I stand. I brace myself on the wall and try to laugh it off. “Still got it,” I mumble to no one. My voice sounds strange, slurred and too loud in the silence.
I move through the apartment aimlessly. There’s a sweater of his draped over a chair. He left it the last time he was here. I pick it up, press it to my face. It still smells like him.
Something inside me cracks open. I drop to my knees on the floor, still clutching the fabric.
“Why’d you have to say that?” I whisper. “Why’d you make me believe?—”
The words fall apart before I can finish.
I sit there for a long time, rocking slightly, breathing through the shaking in my hands. The whiskey hums in my veins, but it doesn’t numb it anymore. Not really.
