Are you okay?
Do I need to call someone?
I could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve lied. But there were two words that mattered more than anything in recovery.
Me:
I’m safe.
I’d barely started explaining when his response popped up.
Bodhi:
Thank fuck.
Me:
My hip’s killing me, and my usual methods aren’t working.
Bodhi:
What do you need?
I sighed.
It would’ve been easy to say Oxy. Easy to reach for the version of myself that chased numbness and chemical relief. Theone who swallowed pills and chased strangers because feeling something was better than feeling nothing.
But that wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore.
I was sober. I had a job. I was building connections that weren’t transactional or destructive. I was still learning this new version of myself, and I didn’t want to ruin it before it had a chance to stick.
Me:
I need painkillers, but my roommate used to dispense them for me, and asking Clara feels weird.
Bodhi:
Give me five minutes.
That made me frown.
I was halfway out of bed to grab a fresh ice pack when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Bodhi standing there in a T-shirt and gym shorts, hair damp, skin flushed.
“You’re sweaty,” I observed.
He shrugged, looping a towel around his neck. “I was in the gym with Thump and Riff.”
He stepped inside and perched on the edge of my bed, pulling out his phone. “Are you okay with Tylenol?”
I frowned. “That’s paracetamol, right?”
“I think so. It’s an over-the-counter painkiller.”
“Then yeah.”
When I sat beside him, I noticed he was texting Clara.
“What are you doing?” I asked, worrying the edge of my thumb between my teeth.
