In a dimly lit room, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of the world pressing down on him. Morning light spilled through the curtains, illuminating the remnants of a night filled with too much whiskey and half-hearted excuses. He rubbed his temples, the throbbing headache a constant reminder of the choices he had made. “I wanna be drunk when I wake up,” he muttered, needing the familiar haze to soothe the aching truth of his existence.

The bed next to him felt empty, a void echoing with memories of laughter and warmth. He glanced at the other side, still untouched, and recalled the times he had shared it with Sarah. They had loved fiercely, and although their relationship had shattered, parts of her spirit lingered in his heart — a scar that wouldn’t fade. Determined to escape the pain, he had filled the gaps with alcohol, but he knew it wouldn’t make him stronger.

The chill in the air seeped into his bones, amplifying the loneliness that threatened to consume him. “A house gets cold when you cut the heating,” he whispered, memories flashing through his mind every evening she had spent beside him, her laughter filling the spaces he felt now. He couldn’t help but feel that she had taken a piece of him with her, leaving him standing in a winter of solitude.

As the silence of the room wrapped around him, he brought a bottle to his lips, the familiar burn feeling less like solace and more like a betrayal. “Maybe I’ll get drunk again,” he thought, mulling over the idea of seeking temporary love in a bottle. He didn’t want to admit how much he craved the warmth of another person. The thought sliced through him: he would never hold her like he used to.

Days slipped by without a plan, and he found himself contemplating conversations that would never happen. He wanted to reach out, to hold her heart in both hands, but the fear of rejection held him hostage. “I know you’ll never love me like you used to,” he murmured to himself, the harsh reality of their fading connection settling heavily in his chest.

In the moments of clarity between drunken nights, he pondered the world outside his walls, yearning for the sparks of companionship that ignited within others. Flames once kindled had now turned to ashes, leaving him to sift through the remnants of what was and what could have been. On cold days, each note of the music playing in the background felt painfully familiar, as if the universe had orchestrated a symphony of his heartache.

But he couldn’t shake the truth: he couldn’t heal the fissures in his heart with a simple handshake or forced conversation. His wounds ran deeper, exposed like a landscape stripped bare by a storm. He glanced at the open bottles scattered around his room, symbols of the celebrations turned sour. He could celebrate all he wanted, but applause felt hollow without her by his side.

As evening descended, he found himself once again, alone. “All by myself,” he thought. With each sip from the bottle, he felt the fleeting warmth of what love once was, even if it was profoundly blurred by the alcohol coursing through his veins. He knew this cycle wouldn’t change, yet he clung to the small hope of finding solace.

“I’ll be drunk again,” he resolved, perhaps drunkenness was the only way to feel a little love, even if it was just an illusion. With that thought, he took another swig, letting the comforting numbness pull him under, chasing the echoes of lost affection as he waded through the darkness, the lingering shadows of a love that had once burned bright now only flickering dimly in his heart.