The memories pressed in whether I wanted them to or not. The nights I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t get comfortable. The way my body felt foreign, hostile. Like it was punishing me.
“I cried to the doctors,” I said. “Begged for stronger meds. Tried heat packs, ice packs, physio, acupuncture—literally anything they suggested—but nothing touched it.”
I laughed, hollow. “Except the morphine in hospital. That worked.”
Bodhi went still.
“But you don’t get to stay on morphine unless you’re dying,” I added. “So they sent me home with prescriptions that might as well have been sugar pills.”
My skin started to itch, that familiar restless discomfort crawling under it. I forced myself to keep going.
“About a year later, I met up with someone from the Royal,” I said. “She was American and had a bottle of oxycodone she wasn’t using anymore.” My heart thudded hard against my ribs. “They don’t really prescribe it here. But she said it helped her after a past surgery. Said I deserved some relief.”
Bodhi’s hand moved slowly up and down my spine.
“Iggy,” he murmured. “You don’t?—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I do. I need to say it. At least to you.”
He didn’t argue. Just pressed a kiss to my hair and waited.
“When I took that first pill, it was like... the world softened,” I whispered. “The pain disappeared. The noise in my head went quiet. The fear, the grief, the anger. All of it just floated away.”
I buried my face against his chest.
“It wasn’t even about getting high at first,” I said. “I just wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to feel normal.” My voice cracked. “Then one pill wasn’t enough, and I started taking them when I wasn’t even in pain. Until the bottle ran out.”
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.
“Someone at the pub I worked at knew a dealer, and that’s where it all began.” I exhaled slowly. “Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a dancer who got hurt and started being an addict.”
Silence settled between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Fast forward a couple of years and... well, you know what happened after that,” I finished quietly.
Bodhi didn’t speak right away, and for a moment, fear curled tight in my chest. I worried I might’ve triggered him. That he’dlook at me differently now. Not as I was, but as something damaged. Broken and weak. Just like I’d been back then.
Then his hand slid over my stomach, warm and steady, the weight of his arm settling on top of me. He leaned in and kissed my shoulder, my neck, my cheek. Wherever he could reach, before resting his forehead against my temple.
“I’m really glad you told me,” he said eventually. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded circle against my skin, and I focused on the sensation, letting it anchor me.
“You survived something that would’ve broken a lot of people.”
My breath hitched, a familiar burn rising behind my eyes. “But it did break me,” I whimpered. “I was weak.”
Bodhi shook his head and kissed my tears as they slipped free.
“That wasn’t weakness,” he said gently. “That was pain, and you were just trying to live with it.” He exhaled, slow and thoughtful. “You lost your body, your future, and your sense of who you were. Of course you reached for something that made it stop hurting.” He paused, then added softly, “That doesn’t make you less. It makes you human.”
Something loosened in my chest. A weight I hadn’t even realised I was carrying finally slipped free and I could breathe again. Despite the ever-present dull ache in my side, I felt light. Almost buoyant. Last night, he’d shown me I wasn’t broken. And now, even knowing the full story, he still looked at me like I was someone with a future. Someone becoming, not someone ruined.
Back in rehab, he’d told me I could live a long and happy life. And lying here with him, I thought... maybe that wasn’t just something people said to make you feel better.
Still, the moment had tipped into territory too dangerously earnest for my liking, so I wiped at my cheeks and let out a slow breath.
“Well,” I said softly. “That was a lot before breakfast.”
