Halfway through your latest drink, you think—this might have been a mistake. Your vision is blurring already. The bartender looks displeased.

Why? Why don't you know when to stop yourself? When it's too much?

It's not just here—it's with C., it's with work, it's everything. It's all a jumbled mess, and so are you.

You lurch off your barstool, and fall on the floor, sprawled like a broken toy. The other patrons are looking at you, whispering.

"Get out," the bartender says. "You're done."

It's all so embarrassing and awful, but if that wasn't enough, you see D. near the door. They're one of your closest friends, but you've cancelled plans with them lately. You just haven't been in the mood to see anyone. And now they can see you like this. D. just looks confused and disappointed.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I've been a bad friend."

You stumble home in tears. What made you like this? Your heart aches. You miss D. You miss everything, as it was before.

At home, you reach for your prescription medication. You usually take two, but surely you could use more. Maybe this will fix things. You laugh quietly, desperately to yourself. It's a strangled, ugly noise. The sound of a wounded animal.

Please, please, please. Let this end.

You're falling asleep now. You hear your mother's voice as you slip away. Her mouth is moving, what is she saying? I love you. Be good. You want to be. You'll try harder next time.

The edges are fading around you. You feel soft and warm, suffused in light. You're home now. You're safe.