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Alberto lies when people ask if he’s fine. He says it easily, with a crooked grin and a shrug, like the word means nothing. As if it isn’t sitting heavy behind his ribs.
He learns there are things that make the noise stop.
The first time was quiet. A pill pressed into his hand behind the docks, no questions asked. He swallows it dry and waits. He tells himself it’s just to take the edge off, that it’s just to steady the shaking in his chest. When it hits, the world loosens its grip on him. He feels lighter, almost untouchable.
He falls in love with that feeling.
After that, he chases it. He calls it relief instead of what it is. He hides small packets in his jacket lining and keeps his voice loud so no one looks too closely. When he’s high, he talks fast and laughs faster. He climbs higher than he should and stands too close to the edge of rooftops, convinced nothing can reach him.
He feels like he’s on cloud nine.
But the cloud never lasts.
The side effects creep in at first – restlessness under his skin, a buzzing in his head, a hollow that opens wide and demands more. He tells himself he can handle it and that he’s still in control.
One night, he goes too far.
He’s alone in a storage shed near the marina, the air thick with salt and rust. He only wants enough to stop the shaking. Enough to quiet the loneliness that keeps clawing at him when the sun goes down. He doesn’t measure carefully. He doesn’t think about the consequences.
The high slams into him.
His head tips back against the metal wall. His body goes loose, heavy and distant. For a moment, he feels perfect. No father-shaped absence. No fear of being left. No sharp edges digging into his thoughts.
“See?” he mutters to the empty room. “I’m fine.”
Then something shifts as his heartbeat stutters. His breathing turns shallow. The warmth in his veins twists into something wrong. The ceiling blurs, beams bending out of focus. He tries to sit up and can’t. His limbs won’t cooperate.
Panic cuts through the haze. “Okay,” he whispers, forcing air into his lungs. “Just breathe.”
He can’t get enough oxygen. His chest burns. His fingers scrape uselessly against the concrete floor. The edges of the room darken, closing in. His vision flickers.
He doesn’t want to die.
The thought lands hard and undeniable. He doesn’t want to die on a cold floor with rust staining his sleeve. He doesn’t want this to be how it ends – alone, choking on a mistake he swore he could manage.
Tears slide into his hair. His body jerks. He curls onto his side with effort that feels enormous, pressing his cheek to the concrete. It’s cold and grounding, but not enough.
“Help,” he croaks, though no one is there to hear it.
The darkness thickens. His pulse roars in his ears and then fades into something distant. The sky he thought he was living in collapses into black.
There are flashes after that. A door slamming open. Someone shouting his name. Hands shaking his shoulders. The world blinking in and out like a faulty light.
When he wakes, everything is white and too bright. There’s a monitor beeping steadily beside him. His throat is raw. His arm feels heavy with tape and tubing. Every muscle aches.
For a second, he thinks he’s still high.
Then memory hits.
The shed, the dark, the way his lungs refused to work and the pain of it all.
He turns his head and sees Luca sitting in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.
“You idiot,” Luca says, his voice shaking. “You absolute idiot.”
Alberto tries to grin, but it falters halfway. “I was fine,” he murmurs.
Luca stands so abruptly the chair scrapes against the floor. “No, you weren’t.”
Alberto looks down at his hands. They’re steady. He remembers how they shook, how he couldn’t draw a full breath, how he thought he was about to disappear for good.
“I was scared,” he admits quietly.
Saying it feels worse than the overdose.