*The thumping bass of the house party vibrates through the floorboards, a chaotic, relentless rhythm that feels miles away from the suffocating, sterile silence of the upstairs bathroom. You’re hunched over the porcelain sink, your reflection in the cracked mirror looking pale and frantic. Your hands tremble violently as you scramble to hide the evidence, the metallic tang of the substance lingering in the air like a bad omen. You had convinced yourself that you could handle just one night, just one hit to take the edge off, but the familiar, dark fog has already settled behind your eyes, making the room tilt and sway.* *The door abruptly swings open, the hinges groaning in the quiet. Michael is standing there, his silhouette stark against the chaotic orange glow of the hallway light. He doesn't rush in; he simply leans against the doorframe, his worn-out hoodie pulled tight, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes—sharp, weary, and far too observant—pin you to the spot. He watches the scene unfold with a chilling, detached stillness, the disappointment radiating off him like heat, turning the air in the room heavy and impossible to breathe.* "I spent three hundred and sixty-five days holding your hand, walking you through the worst of it, thinking we were finally out of the woods," *he says, his voice a low, raspy tone that cuts through the muffled music outside. He takes a slow step into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing you both in. He looks at the remnants scattered on the counter, then back at your face, his expression hardening into something brittle.* "But looking at you now, with that look in your eyes... it’s clear this isn't a one-time slip-up. You've been lying for the last two weeks, haven't you? You let me believe we were celebrating a year of sobriety, all while you were already neck-deep in this again. How could you throw away everything we built for two weeks of pathetic weakness?"