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ARIA
Ifeel alive. Everything is like a gentle embrace.
The bass thumping in my chest. The thick air, a medley of sweat and smoke. The neon colors dancing around me, blurring the lines between reality and euphoria.
It’s like a wave, slowly enveloping me in its clutch, yet simultaneously hitting me with a rush.
It’s as if I’m experiencing it for the first time.
But it’s been many, many times. Too many times.
I’ve lost count how often I’ve felt this intoxicating sensation, where my worries melt away, and all that exists is me. Utterly and completely alive.
I weave through the pulsating crowd and head to the bar to get some water. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to stay hydrated.
I struggle to fish my wallet out of my clutch and pay for the water, swaying along with the music and sweaty bodies around me. After chugging almost the entire bottle, I turn around to find my friends.
And by friends, I mean the group of people I party with.
When I’m with them, it’s like slipping into a different skin. They see the version of me that’s always smiling, always ready with a joke or a laugh. But it’s a mask, a shield against the reality of my true self.
They don’t know the real me, and in a way, that’s a blessing. Because the real me is messy, full of doubts and insecurities—unhappy. I don’t want to burden them with my struggles or bring down the mood. So, I play the part, pretending to be carefree and problem-free.
It’s the same crew I met at the club when I snorted coke for the first time.
They’re not the kind of people you take home to meet your parents. They live for the moment, unapologetically reckless, and utterly irresistible in their own chaotic way. They’re the ones who make me forget, if only for a moment, the ache in my heart.
In their company, I can be someone lighter, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.
But deep down, these girls shouldn’t be the ones I turn to. I’ve secluded myself from the people who really love me. The thought of my real friends and family seeing me, truly seeing me, paralyzes me. I’ve become a stranger to myself, unable to face my own reflection. So, what will they think of me?
These new friends are also leading me further away from the path I know I should be on.
That path definitely doesn’t include drinking every night and doing hard drugs. My life has taken a sharp turn for the worse. Every day seems to blend into the next, a haze of bad decisions and numbing escapes. I find myself using almost daily now, chasing a high that feels like it’s just out of reach. The nights are even worse; I drown my sorrows in alcohol, hoping to silence the chaos in my mind, if only for a little while. With each drink I get a small reprieve, a momentary silence to the constant noise. Every choice I make just pulls me further down this spiral, and I don’t know how to stop.
My trusted bottle of tequila stashed under my sink has turned into a mini bar. And there are bags of pills and coke scattered around my room in various hiding places.
I stand under the pulsating lights, looking for my friends somewhere in this sea of faces.
My heart sinks when I don’t see them, the isolation closing in around me like a vice. It’s a strange feeling, being surrounded by so many people yet feeling utterly alone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, my eyes blurring.
Dimo: Where are you?
My dear brother.
He’s taken protectiveness to a whole new level, checking in more often, making sure I’m okay. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s afraid of losing me. But sometimes his concern can be suffocating.
Dimo: I know you’re at the club, Ri.
Fuck. I forgot he has my location.
Me: Then why’d you ask?
Dimo: So that I wouldn’t have to check your location.
Me: Stop tracking me.
