The withdrawal was a special kind of hell—sweating through sheets, puking my guts out when no one was looking, hiding the shakes. But something about her eyes that night, wide with fear and disappointment, hit harder than any comedown.

This morning feels different though—there's a whisper of something I'd almost forgotten: hope.

My mind has been a war zone for as long as I can remember. Thoughts aren't just thoughts when they've haunted you long enough. They transform into nooses—fashioned from your own memories, woven tight with regret. They dangle in the corners of your mind, patient, always waiting for those quiet moments when you think you might be free. Then they tighten, one by one, choking out any hope of silence.

That's the thing about the noise in your head—it's not just sound. It's a physical thing, wrapped around your throat, your chest, your future. Doesn't matter how many times you've heard the accusations, felt the shame. The rope just gets stronger with every loop of the same old shit.

That's why I started popping pills in the first place. One hit and bam—blessed fucking silence.

No more voices.

No more replaying every single screwup in surround sound.

Just... nothing.

But nothing isn't living.

And Nora's face that night—Christ, I can't shake it. The way she backed away from me, like I was some stranger she'd never seen before. Like everything between us had been a lie. And maybe it had been. Maybe I'd been lying to both of us about who I really am.

So six days.

One day at a time.

The cravings still hit like a freight train sometimes, especially when the noise gets too loud. But I'm holding on. By my fingernails some days, but I'm holding.

One step, then another, then another.

Even when your mind's screaming at you to just lie down and fucking quit.

I toss off the covers and swing my legs out of bed, muscles protesting as I stretch. By the time I'm downstairs, Ollie's voice booms through the house, yanking me firmly into the present.

"Nate! Jake!" His shout cuts through any remaining fog. "Get your asses downstairs. We're leaving in ten!”

I pull on a fresh t-shirt, the fabric still warm from the dryer, and jog down to meet them. Today's about starting fresh—just skating, surfing, being the kids we used to be. The simplicity of it feels exactly like the cleanse I need. No drama, no heavy shit, just the open road and waves. Ollie's already in the kitchen, his broad frame taking up too much space as he slings a protein bar my way.

"About fucking time," he jokes, eyes crinkling at the corners. I catch the bar mid-air but drop it on the counter.

“You need it. You're looking a bit outta shape there, Natey boy." There’s a familiar smirk playing on his face.