Bad Habits

I loved her like a bad habit—intoxicating, destructive, impossible to quit. And like all bad habits, she tasted best at 2 a.m., wrapped in smoke, whiskey, and the kind of familiar regret that lingers longer than it should. I swallowed hard, but all I could taste was the mistakes I already knew I’d make again.

The bed was empty—of course it was. She never stayed. She wasn’t the type, and I wasn’t the guy you stayed for. Wasted.

I reached for my cigarettes. Lit one. Took a drag. The sun was bleeding through the faded blinds, painting the room in that cheap morning-after glow. The kind that makes everything look worse than it already is. The kind that reminds you of everything you were trying to forget in the first place.

I grabbed my phone, checking for signs of something more.

No missed calls. No messages. No lifeline.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I wasn’t. But still, I felt that stupid little ache in my chest, that phantom pain you get when you reach for something that isn’t there anymore. Maybe it never was.

I leaned back against the headboard, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. The room smelled like old booze, cheap perfume, and resignation. Somewhere in the mess of empty bottles, crumpled receipts, and discarded clothes, there was probably a piece of me worth salvaging. I just didn’t have the energy to go looking for it.

Outside, the city kept moving. People with purpose. People with jobs. People who hadn’t spent the night chasing ghosts in liquor bottles and tangled sheets. People who had reasons to get out of bed.

I was not one of those people.

I reached for another cigarette. Lit it. Took a drag. Let it sit in my lungs a little too long, just to feel something. Exhale.

I told myself I wouldn’t call her.

I already knew I was lying.

The phone felt heavy in my hand. Maybe it was just the weight of bad decisions waiting to happen. I stared at her name, the letters blurring slightly from last night’s drinking or this morning’s reality. Maybe both. I could send a text. Something casual. Something that made it seem like I didn’t care as much as I did. Another drag.

Had fun last night.

No. Too eager.

You left your earring here.

A lie. She never left things behind. Not earrings, not toothbrushes, not hope.

I sighed, locked the screen, and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. The urge would pass. It always did. Until it didn’t.

I could leave town. Start over. New name, new vices, same old problems. Or I could stay and keep making the same mistakes in the same places with the same people who never really gave a damn.

But where would I go? Some other city with the same shitty bars and the same kind of women who knew exactly how to hurt you? Some nowhere town where I could disappear and pretend I wasn’t just waiting to fuck up all over again?

I poured myself some whiskey and quickly drained the glass. It burned, but not enough. Then I flicked the cigarette into an empty beer bottle on the floor.

“Fuck it,” I said. "What now?"

Another glass, another drag. Maybe something else. I reached for the nightstand and found a half-smoked joint from God knows when. Lit it up. Inhaled deep. Held it. Let it float through me.

I closed my eyes, leaning back against the pillows. The high crept in, slow and warm, smoothing the rough edges but never quite fixing anything. That’s the problem with drugs—they soften the blows, but they don’t stop the hits from coming. I let the haze settle in, knowing full well it was just another way to kill time.

I thought about her again. Her laugh, sharp and cruel, like she knew something I didn’t. The way she kissed—like she was taking something instead of giving it. The way she looked at me sometimes, like she was waiting for me to become something I never would.

Maybe I should have told her.

Told her that I don’t do forever. That I barely do tomorrow. That I drink too much and care too little, except when I care too much and then it’s a fucking disaster.

Maybe she already knew.

I took another hit. The joint crackled, the ember glowing in the dim, familiar light.

I should get up. Shower. Eat something. Try to be human for a few hours. But the idea of movement feels exhausting. The idea of facing the day—impossible.

Maybe it doesn't even matter.

I reached for my phone again, staring at her name. I could call. I could say something. But what the hell was there to say?

Come back.

I miss you.

I’m sorry.

I stared at the words I would never send, my thumb hovering over the screen like an idiot waiting for permission from the universe. But the universe didn’t give a damn, and neither did she—not enough, anyway. I sighed and put the phone down. Some things were better left unsaid.

Outside, the city was stretching itself awake. Office lights flickered on. Horns blared. Somewhere, a couple fought over coffee, and a kid missed the bus. People with jobs, responsibilities, destinations. People who knew where they were going, or at least had the good sense to pretend.

Me?

I sat in the quiet ruin of my apartment, surrounded by the ghosts of last night—half-empty bottles, ashtrays overflowing with regrets, a crumpled shirt that still smelled like her. I told myself I’d clean up, but that was just another lie to add to the pile.

I poured another drink. The amber liquid catching the morning light, glowing like it holds all the answers. Or maybe some better questions. It didn’t. It never does, really. But I drank it anyway, let it burn a little longer in my throat, hoping it would cauterize something deeper.

Because with a future so uncertain, I might as well be drunk when I get there.