Six Years Ago
Carter's POV
Telling Dad about you was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know how. How do you look a man in the eyes and tell him his son is turning into the very thing he lost his wife to? How do you say, "Hey, I've got your nightmares living inside of me now"?
I sat in the passenger seat of his old silver pickup, staring out the window at nothing, the silence between us growing heavier with each mile. My fingers itched, twitching over the frayed hem of my sweatshirt sleeve. My mouth was dry. My heart thudded like it wanted to escape.
He was drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, a nervous tic he didn't even realize he had. We were parked in front of our house, the engine off, keys still in the ignition. I knew if I didn't say it now, I never would.
"Dad," I said, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked over, the lines on his face carved a little deeper than I remembered. "Yeah, son?" His voice carried the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.
I swallowed hard. My tongue felt too thick. "I—uh—I need to tell you something. It's not good."
The silence stretched, like time was holding its breath.
"I've been using. For a while now." The words scraped against my throat like broken glass. "Pills mostly, then... more. I didn't mean to. I mean, I never meant for it to get this far, but it did. And now..." My voice cracked. "God, Dad, I need help. I really need help."
His expression didn't change right away. Just a slow blink. And then something behind his eyes cracked open—pain, recognition, grief maybe. But not anger. Not the disappointment I was bracing myself for.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," he said softly, his voice steady in the way that only a man who's weathered too many storms can manage. "I've been watching you slip away for months now. Reminded me too much of her to admit it, I guess." He reached across the console, his weathered hand hovering above mine. "We'll get you help, Carter. Whatever it takes. You don't have to do this alone. Not like she did."
That cracked me open. Right there in the damn truck, I cried. Ugly, messy, shoulder-shaking sobs. And he just reached over and held the back of my neck like he used to when I was a kid, grounding me.
"I'm sorry," I choked out between sobs. "I'm so goddamn sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he whispered, his own voice thick. "Just be here. Stay with me. That's all I'm asking."
I didn't think I had the guts to tell him. I thought he'd see Mom in me and turn away. But Liv had helped me find that courage. Liv, who somehow still looked at me like I was worth saving, even after everything I did.
I used to think she was the strongest person I knew. Now I know it.
There was a time when I could've stood up for her.
I saw what they did—Brad and the others, the way they whispered behind her back, called her names. Called her a freak, a prude, a stuck-up bitch who thought she was better than everyone. And maybe she was. Better, I mean.
She had this light. Not the bubbly kind. It was more like a quiet lamp in a dark room—something solid, something real.
I could've stopped it. God knows I wanted to. I remember one day Brad was mimicking her voice in the cafeteria, high-pitched and mocking, and I clenched my fists so hard my nails left crescent moons in my palms. I stood up. Took one step. And then I sat back down.
Coward.
I was afraid. Afraid of losing the only thing I thought I'd ever earned—acceptance. Popularity. Fame, in the dumb teenage way we crave it, like it means something. Like it fills a hole.
And then I did the worst thing of all.
I got with Emily.
Liv's ex-best friend. The one who joined in with the jokes, who laughed just a little too loud when the rumors flew. The one who wore jealousy like perfume.
It hurt Liv. I know it did. I saw it in her eyes that day in the hallway, when I walked past her holding Emily's hand. She looked straight through me, like I was a ghost.
And maybe I was. A ghost of the boy who used to read with her in the back of the library, before I traded everything good for the approval of people who would never care.
Emily was beautiful. Sharp. The kind of girl who knew exactly how much power she had and how to wield it. I fell hard. Not because she made me feel whole—Liv had done that—but because she made me feel wanted. Admired.
I started loving her, or something like it. But even in those moments, Liv lived somewhere in the back of my mind. Like a bookmark I never removed, a page I kept meaning to return to.
And then, as everything fell apart, Emily turned mean. Meaner than usual. She wouldn't stop going after Liv—spreading rumors, posting things online. I told her to stop, more than once. We fought. Screamed, even.
"What is your problem with her?" I demanded one night, after seeing the latest post she'd made. "She's never done anything to you!"
Emily's laugh was cold, brittle. "You're kidding, right? The way she looks at me? Like I'm beneath her? The way she looks at you? Like you're some kind of damaged prince who just needs the right kiss to wake up? That you would want her back again"
"That's not—"
"Don't lie to me, Carter," she spat. "I see the way you look back at her. Like you're always wondering what would've happened if you'd chosen differently. Do you want to go back to her again?"
I couldn't deny it. So I didn't. Eventually, I stopped bringing it up.
That was my line in the sand. And I erased it.
One night I knocked at her home and I told Olivia everything. About the drugs. About the spiral. I didn't want to, not at first. But I knew she was the only one who might still care enough to listen. She didn't say much when I finished. Just looked at me with this expression that made me want to crawl under the floor.
"So that's it?" she finally said, her voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it. "You're just... giving up? The Carter I knew wouldn't—" She stopped herself, shaking her head.
"The Carter you knew is gone," I said bitterly.
"No." Her eyes flashed. "He's not gone. He's just lost. And being lost isn't the same as being gone."
"I don't know how to find my way back."
"Tell your dad," she said firmly. "You can't do this alone. Nobody can."
And then she said something else. Something I didn't expect.
"I still believe in you, Carter." Her voice softened, "I've always believed in you, even when you stopped believing in yourself. But you have to want to get better. Not for me, not for your dad. For you."
"Why?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Why would you still believe in me after everything I did? After I let them tear you apart day after day and did nothing?"
She was quiet for a long moment. "Because I saw you, Carter. The real you. Before all of this. And that person is still in there somewhere."
I don't know why it meant so much. But it did. Maybe because I didn't believe in myself anymore.
Even Sebastian who loved Olivia—I could see in his eyes they both have feelings for each other but something was stopping them and I don't know. The day I told Emily everything I talked to Seb and he talked to me.
"You're actually trying," he said, leaning against the lockers, his eyes assessing me with that intensity he always had. "I didn't think you had it in you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered.
He shrugged. "Look, I'm not going to pretend we're friends or anything. But what you're doing—facing this instead of running—that takes guts. More than I thought you had."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Take it however you want," he said, pushing off from the lockers. "Just don't screw it up."
"Why do you care?"
He paused, his back to me. "I don't," he said, but something in his voice told me otherwise. "But she does. And she's been hurt enough."
Said he respected that I was trying. I'd never really talked to him before. I thought he hated me. Maybe he did. But he still said what he said, and it helped.
When I told Emily, she laughed.
Laughed.
"You? A druggie? That actually explains a lot," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder like she was on some teen drama set.
"I'm trying to get clean."
She snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that. I don't date losers."
"Is that all you have to say?" I asked, incredulous. "After everything we've been through?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you expect, Carter? Some tearful declaration that I'll stand by you? That I'll hold your hand through rehab?" She laughed again, but it sounded hollow. "That's not who I am. That's not who we are."
"Then who are we, Emily?"
"We're the people everyone wants to be," she said, with such conviction it almost sounded like she believed it. "Or we were. You're making your choice. I'm making mine."
Then she told everyone. My best friend. The rest of our group. The school.
They started calling me names in the hall. Whispering, jeering. Slipping fake pill bottles into my locker. Asking if I needed a fix.
Brad cornered me one day, his smile all teeth. "Hey, man, heard you're into the heavy stuff now. Always knew there was something off about you."
"Back off, Brad," I said, too tired to fight.
"Or what? You'll OD on me?" He laughed, too loud. "Your girlfriend's already moved on, you know. Didn't take her long. But then again, you weren't exactly boyfriend of the year, were you?"
I should have felt something—anger, humiliation, something. But I just felt empty.
"Are you done?" I asked quietly.
He blinked, thrown off by my lack of reaction. "Whatever, man. You're pathetic."
"Maybe," I agreed. "But at least I'm trying not to be."
It stung. But it didn't destroy me.
Because I was already on my way out.
I checked into rehab a week later.
The rehab center was tucked away behind a curtain of trees at the edge of town, like the building itself was ashamed to be seen. The rooms were plain—off-white walls, metal beds, the smell of disinfectant and old hope. But it was safe. And for the first time in months, I didn't have to pretend I was okay.
The days blurred—group therapy, journaling, lights out at ten. The nights were the hardest. That's when the cravings crawled out of the corners of my mind. I would lie there in the dark, sweating, shaking, teeth clenched.
One night, I slipped.
I found a stash someone had hidden behind the bathroom ceiling tile. I stared at it for an hour. Then I used.
And I hated myself for it.
I confessed the next morning. They didn't kick me out. They just looked at me like they understood. Because they did.
"Relapse is part of recovery," my counselor said, her eyes steady on mine. "The question isn't whether you'll fall. It's whether you'll get back up."
"What if I keep falling?" I asked.
"Then you keep getting up," she replied simply. "Until one day, you realize you've been standing longer than you've been falling."
I met her on a Wednesday.
Visiting hours. She was sitting alone in the outdoor courtyard, face tilted up to the sun, eyes closed. Long dark hair, twisted into a braid that hung over her shoulder like a ribbon. There was something about her—stillness. Not quietness, not silence, but stillness. Like a lake before a storm.
I don't remember who spoke first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn't. But we started talking. Just little things.
She was visiting her uncle. That's all she said.
She asked me how I was doing.
"Still breathing," I said, shrugging.
"That's more than some can say," she replied quietly.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," she said, turning to look at me fully. "It's just the truth. You're here. You're breathing. Sometimes that's a victory all on its own."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
We didn't exchange names. Not on purpose. It was like we agreed, without saying it, that names would make it real. Names came with expectations. Labels. Stories.
We didn't need stories. We were both already drowning in our own.
Later that night, I found her on the rooftop. I wasn't supposed to be there. No one was. But the lock was always loose, and I needed air.
She was sitting on the ledge, her legs dangling like she didn't care if gravity remembered her.
I sat beside her.
For a long time, we didn't speak. Just looked at the stars.
"They don't look real," she said finally. "Like they're painted on."
"Nothing feels real lately," I replied.
She looked at me. "Why are you here?"
"Because I messed up," I said. "Because I got tired of lying. Because if I didn't come here, I was going to die."
A pause.
"Good," she said.
"Good?"
"That you came. That you chose to live."
"I'm not sure I did," I admitted. "Choose, I mean. It feels more like... falling. And somehow landing somewhere softer than I expected."
"Isn't that what all the best choices feel like?" she asked. "Like you didn't really choose at all, but somehow ended up exactly where you were supposed to be?"
We didn't touch. But our shoulders were close enough to feel the heat of each other's skin.
"Promise me something," she whispered.
"Anything."
"Don't tell me your name."
"Why not?"
"Because names are heavy," she said, her eyes reflecting starlight. "They come with histories. Expectations. I don't want that. Not tonight."
I smiled. "Deal."
And just like that, a piece of me began to heal.