these days, i have been trying to get sober. it is like asking a child with adhd to sit still. when i am fiending for just one more hit i struggle to even focus on the person in front of me. they say the cravings come in waves, for me, they sit omnipresent in the back of my mind and slowly gnaw through my skull. in the mornings when the crisp air smells hopeful, they are easier to dismiss—especially on the days my body is too busy to remind my brain that he once existed in my world. however, when night eventually cloaks my apartment, the urges sharpen into an all-consuming pain. i do anything for relief—so i guard my vices the same way i lick my wounds, with a kind of resentment. the worst part is coming down. i can stay in bed for days. the blinds stay closed. i consume dopamine like water, quenching the thirst by gluing my eyes to a screen for days on end. too soon, another week rolls around. eventually—not willingly, i assess the damages. they say smoking is a nasty habit, so i never buy cigarettes. but i do check my appearance in the mirror in such an obsessive way it feels like a drug. every look is a shot of nicotine straight to my brain. cigarette smoke makes me feel sick. i imagine i also disgust those who witness my compulsion. i can feel them distance themselves, repulsed, as though i am exuding my own form of secondhand smoke. sometimes, it is not even about being satisfied by my reflection. instead, i imagine that it is his eyes through which i am viewing myself. i am consumed by the thought of him watching me—to even the faintest sense of his validation. and then there is the binge eating, followed by the familiar shame spiral. i do not throw up i only think about how good it would feel. it feels good to think about him too. i try to ignore the yearning, but it seeps into my bloodstream, runs through my veins. i look at pictures of him with a fondness. they bring an irreplaceable hit to the pleasure centre of my brain. it is a private ritual, one of my dirty little secrets. i am grateful nobody can see the thoughts that cloud my head. in my dreams i answer the door to him standing there unannounced, his brown doe-eyes shining in that boyish way. i imagine the way he smells, the way his shirt hugs his arms. i feign reluctance before accepting his apology, but i let him wear me down. is it the chase that i am addicted to? once i give in to the ache, the door slams shut. the high wears off. i am left in my bedroom surrounded by the ghosts of my past. another precious day wasted. sometimes, i keep chasing. i wallow in the desperation like the dirty dishes that rot in my sink, but eventually i have to get up to feed the cat. my phone taunts me with the fact that he has never called—not even once. how can i be both disappointed and relieved? they say caffeine is bad for you so these days i drink decaf. loving him this way is safer. healthier. reaching out is to relapse. he cannot hurt me again if he is contained within the perimeters of my mind. this gives me intoxicating power, whether real or fake. the risk is that i may become stuck in the past, recreating memories and breathing stale air. but like an addict, i still take another hit, no matter the cost. old habits really do die hard.