Who needs drugs when emotions can mess you up just the same?
It's ironic, really—after everything, I still crave comfort from the very person who's caused me so much pain. I want him close, even though I know he's chosen someone else. It doesn't make sense, but that's the thing about feelings, right? They don't care about logic. They just... are.
"Do you still like him? Even now?"
Dr. Skyrim's voice echoed in my head, gentle but probing, like a surgeon looking for the source of an infection he couldn't quite locate. I could hear him as clearly as if he were sitting in the corner of this dark room, his dark eyes watching me, waiting for a truth I was too cowardly to speak aloud.
"I don't want to," I whispered aloud to the empty room, my fingers traced the frayed seams of my blanket, picking at the threads until my skin felt raw.
"But I do."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I didn't want to admit it, not even to myself, but the truth was undeniable. My mind raced back to the conversation I had with Dr. Skyrim earlier.
I was in my bedroom now, lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to piece together where everything had gone wrong. My thoughts kept circling back to that night—the night I had made the choice I couldn't take back. Sure, I was drunk, but not drunk enough to ignore what was right and what was wrong. Who was I kidding? I knew exactly what I was doing. that night when I started my relation with himI sighed, rolling over in bed, curling up with my knees to my chest.
The weight of it all was suffocating, like I was drowning in my own mistakes.I grabbed the bottle of whiskey I'd hidden beneath the bed, the one I used to try and numb the pain, and took another sip.
I knew it wouldn't dull anything. It never did. But I did it anyway. Anything to escape this feeling. Anything to make the ache in my chest go away, even if just for a few minutes.But it never did.
The numbness always wore off too soon. I could still hear Dr. Skyrim's voice in my head, calm and patient, as he tried to make sense of it all.
"You're overthinking," he'd said. "Your mind is running in circles, replaying everything, imagining all the what-ifs. You can't keep blaming yourself for someone else's failure to love you the way you deserve."
I took another swig, the alcohol burning my throat. I hoped, desperately, that this time would be different. That this time the fog would stay, that the memories would fade.
But nothing ever helped.
I tried to convince myself that I could move on. That I should. That there were other people, other lives, other versions of myself that didn't revolve around a man who had explicitly shut me out. But deep down, I knew the truth. You don't just "move on" from trauma. You don't just "get over" someone who made you feel alive for the first time in your existence and then abruptly cut the power.
The pain wasn't something you could push aside. It clung to you. It seeped into your veins like poison, coloring every thought, every breath. It was in the way I looked at my phone, hoping for a message I knew wouldn't come. It was in the way I scanned every room, looking for a silhouette that wasn't there.
No matter how much I wanted to forget him, to stop caring, it wasn't that simple. Not when my heart still craved what I couldn't have. Not when every fiber of my being was wired to seek out the very thing that was destroying me.
It was a loop. A sick, twisted loop where I was both the prisoner and the jailer. And even though I knew it was killing me, I couldn't seem to stop.
I closed my eyes, and there he was. The way he looked at me before the switch flipped. The way his touch made me feel like I was the only person in the universe. The way he made me feel alive, even if it was only for a fleeting, terrifying moment before he pulled the rug out from under me.
Why? The question screamed in my head. Why did he stop? Why did he change?
I took another drink, the liquid tasting more like tears than whiskey now. I hoped, prayed, that this time would be different. That this time I would finally forget.
But I knew, with a sinking certainty, that it never would be.