She was sunlight in the middle of my winter.

The first time I met her, it felt like breathing after holding my breath too long. Everything about her was effortless—the way she laughed, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. With her, time slowed down and sped up all at once. We’d stay up until morning talking about nothing, everything, in between sips and silence.

I didn’t know what to call it back then, but I was already falling—not fast, but all at once.

And the fall felt like flying.

Everything was brighter with her. Colours shouted, touch echoed, even the air shimmered when she was near. She had a way of making the world quieter—like nothing else mattered but her voice in my ear, her presence wrapping around me like a secret. I didn’t question how easily she fit into my life, how quickly she filled the spaces I didn’t know were empty. Being with her didn’t just feel good. It felt inevitable.

But something shifted—softly, slowly—like a storm curling beneath a still sky.

She started arriving at odd hours, uninvited but never unwelcome. I’d hear her in my head before I saw her—soft, insistent, familiar. Being with her stopped feeling like a choice. It became instinct. I used to wait for her. Now I crave her. She doesn’t ask for much, only everything. And I give it, without hesitation.

She says I’m better when it’s just us. That no one else understands me like she does. I don’t argue. I just let her in, even when my hands are shaking.

The shaking didn’t stop.

She’s colder now. Sharper. But I still let her in. I tell myself she’s tired. That it’s my fault—maybe I held her too tight. Needed her too much. Some nights she loves me like she used to—all fire and light—and I forget. But mornings are cruel. I wake up hollow, skin buzzing, heart too loud in my chest. The mirror shows someone I don’t know.

She says I’m just adjusting. That this is what love looks like when it’s real.

Real love, she tells me, doesn’t need the world to understand. And slowly, she took up more space. My world shrank to the shape of her—rooms quieter, days shorter, people blurrier. I stopped reaching out. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew she wouldn’t like it. She wanted all of me or nothing. So I gave her everything in pieces.

The silence became comfortable. Her voice replaced the others. And even when I was alone, she lingered—humming in my bloodstream, whispering that I belonged to her.

But the hum soured.

I don’t sleep much anymore. When I do, it’s restless—full of half-dreams and cold sweats. My hands shake, even when she’s gone. My heart stutters, like it’s forgotten how to beat without her rhythm. Food tastes like ash. Time slips. Some days I wake up on the floor, not knowing how I got there.

But she always comes back, smiling like nothing’s wrong. And I let her hold me like she’s saving me, not sinking me.

I tell myself it’s just a rough patch. That love has seasons. That she’ll be soft again soon.

I still wait for her—in the pauses between thoughts, the breath before sleep. Even now. Even after everything. Part of me still believes she might come back softer. That maybe, if I had loved her better, held her looser, things might have ended differently.

But I know better.

She was never mine to keep. She only ever wanted to be worshipped.

I don’t say her name anymore. It’s easier to leave it in the silence.

But as names often do, they linger.

As for her name?

I think you already know.

~

If any part of this feels familiar—the longing, the silence, the way something once beautiful begins to take everything from you—know that you’re not alone.

Addiction often wears many faces, and it rarely looks like the monster we expect. It can feel like love. Like comfort. Like escape. But there is help, and there is healing. You are not weak for struggling—you are human.

Speak, reach out, break the silence. Recovery is possible, and you don’t have to face it alone.

~