I drifted. By the time I pushed myself up, it felt like I was moving through syrup, slow and deliberate, every step cushioned. I wandered back into the bedroom and shed my clothes as I went, movements lazy, almost reverent. Leggings. Socks. Bodhi’s hoodie. Letting them fall wherever they landed.
My skin prickled, a familiar itch blooming under the surface, but even that felt manageable now. It was a small price to pay. I scratched absently as I collapsed onto the bed, spreading myself wide, surrendering to the mattress like it might absorb me entirely.
The high deepened, wrapped around me, warm and complete, and I finally felt okay. More than okay.
I felt exactly where I was supposed to be.
VARIATION
BODHI
TWELVE WEEKS SOBER
Dr Williams folded her hands in her lap and regarded me over the rims of her teal, cat eye glasses.
“So,” she said gently. “Last session.”
I’d imagined this moment a hundred times over the past twelve weeks. Thought it might feel triumphant. Victorious, like crossing a finish line after a long marathon. Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring out at something vast and unknown.
I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh on a different day. “Yeah. It feels... strange.”
“Endings usually do,” she replied. “How are you feeling about leaving?”
“Ready,” I said, and surprised myself by how true it felt. “Scared too. But the good kind, I think.”
She smiled. “Tell me about that.”
I shifted on the couch, elbows braced on my knees. “Before I came here, everything felt loud. Chaotic. Tour buses, crowds,expectations.” I swallowed. “Music used to be the thing that kept me alive, and somewhere along the way it turned into something I was drowning in.”
“And now?”
I glanced down at my hands. “I want it to feel like mine again. I miss writing because Iwantto, not because I have to.” My eyes lifted back to hers. “I’ve been playing the piano in the lounge, and instead of exhausting me, it’s made me want more. Made me realise how lost I’d been without music.”
Dr Williams nodded. “That’s an important shift.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to go back to just surviving shows. I want to feel them again. To be present. Not numbing myself through the parts that scare me.”
“And what scares you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer right away. Let the question settle, heavy but honest.
“Failing,” I said eventually. “Losing control. Being the guy everyone relies on while I’m quietly falling apart.” I rubbed my palms together. “Tour life doesn’t slow down for feelings.”
“No,” she agreed. “But you’ve built tools this time. You know your triggers. You know how to set boundaries.”
“I know,” I said. “And I think I trust myself to actually use them.”
She studied me for a moment. “That confidence wasn’t here when you arrived.”
I huffed a small laugh. “Nah. Back then, I thought sobriety was about gritting my teeth and pushing through.” I shrugged. “Turns out it’s more about knowing when to stop pretending you’re fine.”
Dr Williams crossed one leg over the other and smiled. “That’s growth.”
There was a pause. Then she asked carefully, “And how areyou feeling about leaving the people you’ve connected with here?”
My chest tightened before my brain could catch up.
“You’re talking about Iggy.”
