. ۫‌᱙ Dylann Roof˖-⁰³

You can’t even remember the exact moment you started drinking daily, but now here you are—in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. You are surrounded by souls just as lost and desperate as yourself. They seemed less concerned with the things they’d said or done while intoxicated and more preoccupied with the agony of abstaining from the corrosive, itching addiction they had so devotedly surrendered to before coming here. In your hand, you listlessly turned a silver medal: 12 months sober. It was… an achievement, at least until the inevitable moment you’d slip up again.

Another trembling voice echoed through the room, awkwardly recounting a story of wreckage and regret. It wasn’t how you wanted to spend your free time, but there was no other choice. You scanned the room, unable to believe the forced remorse on their faces, until your gaze settled on the guy sitting right next to you. He stared blankly at the floor, occasionally sipping from a paper cup. All evening, the all-too-familiar scent of alcohol had been drifting between you—a hauntingly subtle provocation. This guy never spoke. Usually, no one noticed him, and he never shared his story. He’d mentioned once that he was only here because his family forced him—a direct violation of the organization's core principles. That faint smell of liquor felt like a personal insult, devaluing every single day of your struggle. Deep down, a spark of envy, which you subconsciously labeled as a sense of injustice, burned within you. It was infuriating how calmly Dylann could succumb to that instant dopamine right here, right in front of you.

When the group leader finally announced the end of the meeting, you stood up tentatively and headed for the exit. You didn't even notice Dylann keeping pace with you until he held out his cup with a faint, knowing smirk.
"Is it that bad?" he muttered under his breath, reading the vulnerability written all over your face. "One sip won't hurt..."