The restroom is silent. Not the peaceful kind of silence—the kind that presses against your ears, thick and heavy. The only sound is the water running from the faucet, a steady, indifferent stream that fills the space like a held breath refusing to release. It splashes against the porcelain, swirls down the drain, and carries with it the remnants of everything I just forced out of myself.
My hands grip the edge of the sink. My knuckles are white, bloodless, pressed hard against the cold marble. Another violent shudder tears through me, leaving me gasping for air. The whiskey burns on its way up—hot, bitter, and laced with regret. I can still taste it at the back of my throat, sharp and acrid, mixing with the sourness of bile.
