Second Skin - by Maq

‎Addiction isn’t always needles and alleyways and empty bottles on the floor.‎Sometimes it looks like a girl brushing her teeth at seven in the morning, gums bleeding into the sink, eyeliner smudged and eyes swollen just enough to lie that she didn't sleep.‎Sometimes, it looks like a guy who makes everyone laugh, glass always full, listening to everyone else’s stories but never telling any of his own.‎Sometimes, it looks like her.‎Wren didn't wake up one day and decide to ruin her life. It was slower than that. She found something that made the sharp edges inside her blunt.‎There was no dramatic beginning. No moment she could point to and say, There. That's where I became this person.‎There was just a bad night. A terrible one, actually. The kind that left her sitting on the bathroom floor at two in the morning with her knees pulled against her chest, staring at nothing, and unable to convince herself that tomorrow would be worth waking up for.‎Someone gave her something.‎She took it.‎And for the first time in weeks, her body unclenched.‎Her thoughts went quiet.‎The world softened around the edges.‎And when she woke up the next morning, she felt like she could finally breathe.‎She told herself it was only for the bad days.‎That was the rule.‎Bad days meant a little something to take the edge off. Just to get through it. Just to feel okay for a while. To be able to breathe without her chest feeling like it was caving in.‎But then the definition of bad day started to stretch.‎A bad night.‎A long morning.‎An argument with her mother.‎A disappointing grade.‎A lonely afternoon.‎A party she wasn't invited to‎A party she was invited to but didn't want to attend.‎A random day.‎Every other day.‎Every day.‎And then the rule turned into a habit.‎And the habit became a shadow that followed her everywhere.‎Eventually, she didn't need a reason. She just needed it.‎To be honest, it wasn’t always ugly.‎There were moments — strange, shimmering moments of the high, when it felt beautiful. When the world slowed down and everything softened. When music felt like it was made just for her. When her thoughts untangled. When her chest felt lighter.‎Sometimes, addiction feels like love. The twisted kind. The kind where the thing that kills you also holds you through the night.‎It loved her, in its own way.‎It whispered things she wanted to believe: You’re okay now. No one can hurt you. You’re better off with me.‎She clung to it.‎Even when her hands started shaking. And she couldn’t bring herself to eat. And she stopped answering texts, and calls, and life. Even when her sister cried in front of her and she couldn’t care enough to cry with her.‎The high got shorter every time and the coming-down got longer. Her hands shook too badly to braid her own hair. She wore long sleeves on hot days to hide arms she didn't want to explain. She missed her period for four months and told herself it was stress. She threw up bile on an empty stomach because there was nothing left in it to throw up. She stole money from her little sister's birthday card and told herself she'd pay it back, but never did.‎Wren hated what she became.‎But she kept chasing that first version of it, the high that made everything feel clean and light and free.‎But one day she looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognize herself.‎She doesn't remember what saved her, not exactly.‎Maybe it was the night she collapsed in the shower, skin splitting on impact, blood mixing with water, swirling down the drain, desperate to leave her.‎Maybe it was her best friend banging on the door for an hour, her voice cracking every time she said Wren's name, refusing to leave until she knew she was still alive.‎Maybe it was hearing her mother say, I’m scared I’ll lose you, with a voice that broke something open inside her.‎Recovery didn’t come like a sunrise.‎It was gritty, and slow, and embarrassing.‎Shaky hands and heavy guilt and ugly cries on bathroom floors.‎It came with apologies that couldn't repair everything.‎It came with people who loved her but didn't trust her.‎It came with friends who never came back.‎But it also came with small things.‎Mornings that didn’t start with panic.‎Laughter that didn’t feel forced.‎Sleep. Real sleep.‎She misses it sometimes.‎That second skin. That soft lie.‎But she doesn't need it now.‎She'd rather feel everything than feel nothing at all.‎

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