𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

All of this has happened before,
and it will all happen again
-J.M. Barrie

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Tenny's staring at me, frozen beneath the doorway. I'm shaking my head at him, my throat burning and vision blurry. Because I can see it now, all over his face, and I'm cursing myself for not seeing it sooner.

His dilated eyes. His heavy lids. They aren't just full of love. They're high.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask, and my voice comes out broken and shaky. Terrified. Because I'm not sure I even want to know. I'd like to think at least some of this was real.

"Vio—" He shuts the door behind him, so it's only me and him closed in that little dorm room beneath a soft glow from an outside street light. "I can explain, okay?"

I'm shaking my head. My hands are in my hair. I'm thinking of that day when I crawled into his lap, his hair was wet from a shower, and I told him I wish we had been sober that first time we touched. We're sober, now, I had told him. But were we?

Was he sober for any of it?

"It doesn't change anything," he says.

"It doesn't change anything?" I'm shouting. "Tenny, you've been lying to me."

His hands are on my arms. He's searching my face again, but now I understand why. "Vio, I know—and I'm so sorry," he says "But those pills don't change how I feel about you. They don't change anything; I love you, okay? I'm sorry that I kept it from you, but I just didn't want you wrapped up in it."

I can barely make out his expression. My eyes are welling up; his face becomes one big blur. His fingers dig into my skin. I see us in that room: white pills scattered across blue carpet.

"You've been doing so well, Vio," he tells me. "With not drinking and school and—I just didn't want to derail you, okay? I'm sorry that I kept it from you, really, but it doesn't have to mean anything more."

I see him laying on the bathroom floor. Mouth parted and body limp.

"I don't want you to get hurt," I sob. "Tenny, I can't see you like that, again."

His eyes are on the floor, but now it's me reaching for him. My hands cup his face, and I'm angry—so angry that he's kept this from me, but I can't re-live the past. I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing again, so I'm careful with my words.

"Tenny, we can get you help," I say. "Let me help you, okay?"

He's pulling away from me, refusing to look back in my eyes.

"I know about these meetings, where you can go," I tell him. "And they sound silly, but they help, and I'll be there with you. And I know a therapist who—"

"I don't want a fucking therapist, Vio!" He's yelling, now. He takes three steps backwards, and throws his arms out to his sides. His face is twisted, his eyes are wild. I don't know this Tenny. But my heart is screaming to help him.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, voice cracking. "Don't you get that? I'm fucking tired of talking and thinking and living it over and over and over—" He's shouting again, and grabbing at his head, and my heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces.

I rush to him, try to reach for him, but he cowers away.

"Tenny, its okay," I say. "You're okay—it doesn't have to be like that."