“I’m in, Iggs.” He held out a hand to shake, and I took it in mine. “I solemnly swear?—”
“Wait,” I cut in. “Are you making a fucking oath?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “No. I just wanted it to feel meaningful.”
“You sounded like you were selling your soul to a sea witch for legs.”
“God forbid I lose my beautiful singing voice.”
I snorted. “You’re such a twat.”
Bodhi grinned and shook my hand once. “Sober pact.”
I grinned back. Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid. But it felt right.
“Sober pact.”
ALLEGRO
BODHI
THREE WEEKS SOBER
“Today I want us to talk about change.”
Ricky, our counsellor, reclined in his armchair and crossed one tweed-covered leg over the other. “Not the big, dramatic kind. The slow kind. The kind that creeps up on you while you’re busy surviving.”
His eyes moved around the circle of addicts like they did every session. And like every other time I felt his gaze land on me, my body reacted before my brain could catch up. I shifted in my seat, willing him not to start with me.
“Addiction doesn’t appear out of nowhere,” Ricky continued. “It doesn’t just begin on a random Tuesday over a casual pint after work, or with a couple of painkillers for a headache. For most people, addiction starts because something changes.”
He clasped his hands together and rested them in his lap.
“Your routine shifts. A relationship ends. A dream alters shape. Sometimes change hurts. And sometimes it just feels... flat.”
He paused, letting the silence do its thing. Letting his words sink in under our skin.
“So, let’s start here,” he said gently. “What changed for you, and how did you respond?” He gestured to the group. “Not how you think youshouldhave responded. How youactuallydid.”
Someone across the circle began to speak, and I felt my shoulders ease a fraction. I’d been at the Willow for three weeks, and so far I’d mastered the art of saying just enough to avoid suspicion. Everyone knew I was an addict, that part was obvious, but everything else I’d shared was surface level. Polished. Sanitised. The kind of thing you could lift straight from a self-help article orAddiction for Dummies.
I’d found my voice more easily in one-on-one sessions with Dr Williams. She was in her early fifties, warm in a way that radiated safety. Major mom energy. Something about her made it easier to lower my guard, as long as we were tucked away inside her second-floor office.
Maybe it was the wavy brown hair threaded with grey. Or the laugh lines that suggested a life filled with warmth instead of damage. Or the fact she favoured sky-blue Chucks covered in yellow ducks, paired with earrings shaped like balloon dogs. It was hard to feel threatened by someone dressed like that.
There was only one other person at the Willow who knew anything real about me.
Iggy was curled up in a green-velvet wingback chair across the circle, fuzzy-socked feet tucked under his ass. His painted fingernails tapped against the armrest to a rhythm only he could hear, eyes distant like he was halfway inside his own head.
It’d been a week since I’d let him paint my face during art therapy. He’d done his best to invade my personal space after our first shared smoke in the gardens, and instead of putting him off, it seemed to encourage him.
Now Iggy sat with me at every meal, slowly upgrading his position from across the table to right beside me. He never pushed when I stayed quiet. Instead, he filled the space himself, chatting about life in London and whatever K-pop group had captured his attention that day.
During music therapy, he’d planted himself beside an old Yamaha keyboard and begged me to teach him something. I’d tried to ignore him, I really had. But the sight of the white keys made my fingers itch, and when he looked up at me with that exaggerated pout and those bright green, pleading eyes, I folded like a lawn chair. I kept it simple. Chopsticks. He played it again and again until it almost sounded like music.
In art therapy, he waited patiently while I finished my sketches before pulling out his face paints. He followed a floral piece with bold, geometric shapes after discovering a dusty old Picasso textbook. And then he turned my face into a skull, which was actually impressive. Especially the fine, hairline cracks he painted into the bone, delicate enough that it looked like my face might crumble if I breathed too hard.
Iggy had become a constant, pink-haired presence in my day-to-day life at the Willow, and I knew he’d remain a permanent fixture in my memories when I eventually looked back on this place. And the strangest part was... I didn’t hate it.
