I can’t see that same boy I used to know. I can’t see what happening, and I can’t pretend. How many people have you pushed away, how many strange girls have you woken up to since then? And best of all, there’s no one to blame but yourself. Sure, you can try to bury it in bottles; suffocate it in those bright, wildly spinning lights and small smiley faces pressed discreetly into the palm of your hand. Neither of these things is going to cure that ache, the one you’re unfamiliar with, the one that splits your heart open each time she smiles at someone else. He’s got warm eyes and a smile just for her. They share days of heat, new memories, unadulterated laughter, the kind you used to know, the kind that you would do anything to hear. For the first time, you had it—the real thing. Not just the thing you saw in photographs or heard stories about. You had it for yourself, real and true. She was thief in that way, whirling into your life, and slipping away with your heart in her hands. She’s off to find the highest cliff, for what use has she now for such a useless object? Your heart is gone, and instead you busy yourself with new faces, new eyes, and bodies to lose your own in, searching for a replacement. Filling that hole in your heart is your focus now and you’ve got all the help you need: seductive white lines snaking across the kitchen table; bottles of every size and shape, filled to the brim with intoxication and sweet annihilation; capsules with strange letters and happy faces that mock your own.