TW: Mention of Addictions
Foxbury Campus, Western Simdonia
Campus Ghosts
Midday light slanted hard across the Foxbury quad, catching the polished stone paths and the wide glass entryways with just enough glare to make you squint. Students flowed between buildings in uneven currents—backpacks thudding, earbuds tucked, laughter trailing behind clusters of undergrads still riding summer high. But Chris moved alone.
Tall, sharp-shouldered, always a touch overdressed for campus life—his clean white tee and faded lab coat hung stiff, like armor. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere well past the Chemistry Annex.
Craig saw him first.
Leaning against the library steps, coffee in one hand, hoodie bunched at the elbows, Craig looked wrecked—but trying not to be. His dark hair had grown messier since he got back from Tartosia, and his usually effortless grin was nowhere in sight. Tired eyes, a few days’ worth of stubble, and that slow shift in posture when he saw Chris walking by—like maybe, if he stood just right, he wouldn’t get ignored.
“Chris,” he said, low and hopeful.
Chris didn’t blink. Didn’t turn his head. He brushed past Craig without pausing, just a shoulder graze that felt sharper than it should have, deliberate and cold.
Craig flinched.
“Hey Cameron—Chris, ey Christian… CHRIS …” he tried again, stepping forward, but Chris had already cut toward the doors.
Craig stood there, watching that rigid back disappear under fluorescent campus lights. The hallway swallowed him whole.
Silence settled in Craig’s chest like wet cement.
For a long time, Chris had been the person who knew when he was lying—even to himself. Now, he wouldn’t even look Craig in the eye.
And the worst part? Craig couldn’t blame him. Not really. He’d married someone on impulse. Burned every bridge he used to stand on. Still didn’t know why it hurt so bad to lose someone he hadn’t technically dated.
Still didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness when he barely understood what he’d done wrong.
The quad kept moving—horns honking, students shouting, skateboards clacking against the concrete.
But Craig just stared at the door Chris had walked through, wishing he could rewind four months and one bad decision.
Truth on the Quiet Side
The campus café was warm with late afternoon light and the quiet clatter of mugs on wood. Cadie Moore sat curled into the corner booth, reading an abstract on cellular immunotherapy with her laptop glowing dimly before her. Her blue eyes scanned fast, focused, but she still stirred her coffee absentmindedly—half almond milk, half espresso, the way she always took it when stressed.
Chris slid in beside her, his tall frame casting a brief shadow over her seat. No words at first—just a soft lean-in, lips brushing her temple in a gesture more grounding than romantic. Cadie smiled without looking up. That tiny kiss carried everything they’d built: real affection, earned quiet.
He settled back with his own coffee, arms braced across his thighs. “I saw him,” he said finally.
She stopped reading.
“Craig?”
Chris nodded. “Won’t take the hint.”
“He’s hurting,” she said softly.
“So am I.”
Cadie closed her laptop, fingers folding around the mug now like something fragile. The blue in her eyes darkened under the weight of what she wasn’t saying.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “And I should’ve told you sooner.”
Chris stilled. “Yeah?”
Cadie drew a breath. “Sloane didn’t leave Craig because he messed up. Or because she stopped caring. It’s—she’s in love with Dean. Aka my brother.”
Chris blinked. “Your brother?! Are you serious? He’s like … Thirty!”
She nodded. “Twenty-six. She’s been in love with him since we were fifteen. When she told me it was so weird, I mean, my bestie was into my brother? Umm… but she was absolutely obsessed. It was always there—quiet and weird and kind of sad, but… real. And it’s mutual now. They’re together. As in … engaged. So, yeah, that happened. Look, Dean was dating this chick I really didn’t like her, neither did mom, they were gonna get married but Dean found her in bed with someone else. Came home wrecked, trying to heal and well, Sloane was there, a lot, supposedly to hang with me, but actually she was seeing her chance. And it worked. He’s totally into her now. It’s so creepy. Did I mention weird? Mom loves it. She always adored Sloane and while she acknowledges it’s weird for me and sad for Craig, plus serious cringe for you and me, she is supportive. It seems real, Chris.”
Chris leaned back slowly, the tension behind his jaw visible now. His eyes flicked toward the café windows, where students walked past in easy rhythm, chatting over exams and weekend plans. It felt otherworldly—peaceful where his gut had gone turbulent.
“She broke up with Craig,” he said finally. “Because she could finally get the guy she really wanted. Wow. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
Cadie nodded again. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make it worse with you and Craig. I like him and I hate that you two are at odds because of all that. I mean, doesn’t this kinda make me part of the problem, even though I only learned about it AFTER the fact too? But I think Craig’s been blaming himself—thinking he wasn’t enough. And I love Sloane, but I told her the way she handled it was shitty. She can’t hear me right now, she is so mentally checked out over Dean. And my brother just knows everything better. He wants to marry her, Chris. He’s dead-serious.”
Chris tapped his mug, gaze steady now. “Well shit. That is seriously messed up. Crap.”
“And we’re in the middle of it.” she asked.
He looked at her—not cold, but resolute. “Well, I think that changes things and I think I need to give him that answer too.”
The Spiral
Chris didn’t wait.
He left the café with a direction and no plan, fingers restless in his hoodie pocket as he cut across campus toward Craig’s dorm. Late fall air nipped at his knuckles, biting just enough to remind him he hadn’t dressed for hesitation.
The halls smelled like cleaning solution and the lingering ghost of someone’s microwaved ravioli. Music thudded faintly overhead, muffled bass below a layer of Tuesday night fatigue.
Room 214’s door was unlocked.
Craig’s roommate was half-slouched on the couch, phone blaring something fast and chaotic.
“He headed out earlier,” the guy mumbled. “Didn’t say where to, but he looked like shit. I don’t think he went to class.”
Chris hesitated. “You think he’s okay?”
The guy shrugged. “Dunno, man. He’s been off for weeks. Late nights, missed classes, weird energy. Looked like hell, smelled worse. You can wait. He always comes back… eventually.”
Chris stepped inside.
Craig’s side looked the same—just messier. Textbooks stacked sideways. Laundry half-dumped. Not screaming emergency. Just… neglected. The kind of mess that layered over time.
Then he spotted it.
A large university envelope, half-hidden beneath an empty ramen cup. He tugged it free, slid the pages out halfway.
Foxbury Academic Standards Committee. Probation warnings. Missed labs. Grade slippage. The word dismissal circled in heavy red ink.
Chris swallowed. The floor didn’t just shift—it tilted.
Craig wasn’t circling the drain. He was already halfway down.
His eyes swept the room—instincts in overdrive.
Craig’s phone and wallet sat side by side on the nightstand, untouched. Craig was the type that didn’t go anywhere without his phone. Not even to the bathroom or to brush his teeth, he always had the phone growing out of his hand.
His keys lay half-buried beneath a hoodie that hadn’t moved in days.
And his shoes—Chris knew Craig’s footwear inventory like his own—they were all there. The beaten sneakers, the boots he hated, even the decent ones he wore when he bothered to care. Even his filthy, stinky Crocs sat there. And the flipflops he wore in the shower.
Every jacket hung in the closet. The black one he wore when it was barely chilly. The heavier one he reserved for foggy mornings like this. All still here.
Craig had to be nearby, somewhere you can go without shoes and a jacket in this weather. And without phone and keys. A gut punch landed. Something was off. Now Chris was sure of it.
Chris bolted into the hall, checked Craig’s usual haunt by the vending machine, the corner stairwell, the quad-facing windows.
Nothing.
Then—a noise.
A faint clunk, a constant hiss, echoing from the shared shower room down the hall.
He stepped in, slowly. “Hello?”
Mist curled around the tile walls. The fluorescent overheads buzzed faintly, flickering once. One shower still running behind a discolored and frayed plastic curtain.
Chris walked forward and pulled it open. A loud curse escaped him.
Craig was slumped in the corner, fully dressed under the falling water, his hoodie soaked, his head down, breath shallow. An empty pill bottle sat crooked near his shoe—half spilled, label worn. Chris grabbed it, read what was left of the label. Eyes widened, he cursed again.
Chris moved fast, dropped to his knees. He twisted off the faucet with one hand, the spray cutting into silence. Then checked Craig’s pulse. Still there. Slow. Pupils sluggish.
Not gone. But close.
His own breath clipped. He dialed 911 first, voice low and precise.
“Foxbury University. Dorm Building B. Second floor communal shower. Male, early 20s, semi-conscious. Name’s Craig Douglas. Suspected opioid overdose.”
Chris hit the second call and brought the phone to his ear with shaking hands.
“Dad,” he breathed.
Connor was alerted by his tone instantly. “Chris?”
“Dad … I don’t know what to do. I—he’s in the shower,” Chris said, stumbling over the words. “Dressed. The water was still running. I … turned it off. He didn’t bring his phone. He’s not waking up.” Chris mumbled incoherently, clearly in shock.
Silence.
Then the sound of footsteps in the background through the phone. A door swinging open. Wind gusting—telling Chris that Connor was already on his way, a realization that made Chris emotional enough to close his eyes to not start sobbing for relief. Dad was coming. It would be okay. Connor would fix this. Somehow.
“Is Craig breathing?” Connor asked calmly. Chris didn’t even catch how Connor just magically seemed to deduce whom Chris meant. He just did.
Chris nodded, then winced. “Faintly. Pulse is slow. Pupils sluggish. There’s a pill bottle. Opioids, Dad. I called 911.”
Another sound—beeping. A click. A car door.
“Good. You did the right thing,” Connor said, voice steady and clipped. “Now listen carefully. You’re his anchor right now. EMTs are en route, but you need to keep him grounded. Talk to him, even if he’s non-responsive. He might hear you. He might be scared. Let him know he’s not alone.”
Chris crouched lower, squeezing Craig’s hand. “I ignored him, Dad… I was so mad. I just let it sit. And now—what if—”
“Chris. No.” Connor’s tone sharpened. “You don’t get to collapse yet. He needs your brain, not your guilt. You showed up. That’s what matters.”
Chris’s eyes darted, hands trembling.
“Okay, good,” Connor continued. “Do this: keep monitoring his breathing—rate and rhythm. Any gasping, snoring, or pauses, I need to know. Check for cyanosis—lips, fingertips. Is he pale or gray?”
Chris glanced. “Color’s bad. Lips are dusky.”
“Keep him flat but turn his head to the side. If he vomits, prevent aspiration. Don’t let him choke. Do not leave him.”
Chris nodded fast, wiping at his own eyes.
“If you feel his breathing slow further—less than ten breaths a minute—say it out loud. EMTs will clock it faster if you’re counting.”
“I can go with him?” Chris asked.
“Ask the medics when they arrive. You’re not a bystander—you’re trained, and you’re his best friend, next best thing to family. Just stay calm. Stay sharp. I’ll call his parents. They’re in Henfordshire, visiting their daughter. Crap timing, but can’t be helped. The sooner they know, the sooner they can get back.”
Chris looked down at Craig, panicking. “He’s not waking up, Dad.”
“He might not yet. But he’s here. Stay with him. You text me the receiving hospital as soon as you know. I’ll beat you there. You got this, Chris.”
Chris swallowed and agreed with a croaky voice.
He sat beside Craig on the damp tile floor, one hand wrapped around his friend’s soaked hoodie, listening to the faint sound of breath.
Connor’s voice came softly again. “I’m heading onto the freeway now, traffic’s really light, thank God. GPS has me there in under an hour. You’ve got this, son.”
Chris stared at the boy he used to build tree forts with, argue over pop quizzes with, trusted without question. He hadn’t seen the slope. But he was here now, holding the line. And Craig wasn’t gone. Not yet.
“Stay with me bro. I swear we’ll talk. I am here for you, okay? Craig, come on, you gotta pull through this.”
Truth in Scrubs
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Chris paced the corridor outside the recovery wing of Foxbury University Medical Center, East Pavilion—Observation Unit B. The kind of place reserved for short-term stabilization. Not ICU. Not psych. Just the in-between.
Through the glass, Craig lay motionless in a compact room outfitted for overdose recovery—IV hooked, vitals steady, skin pale beneath monitors that blinked slow and quiet. A nurse had dimmed the room’s lights to let him sleep. Chris wasn’t allowed in yet. Not until Craig stirred on his own. Standard policy.
Chris’s hoodie was still damp from the shower floor, the cuffs stiffening with every hour passed. His sneakers left faint water marks on the tile with each lap. The coffee Connor had handed him had gone cold.
Connor had arrived with quiet certainty—tall, composed, hospital badge tucked away, clinic coat left behind in San Sequoia. Nurses made space. His reputation preceded him.
“He’s stable,” Connor said, voice low and firm. “Likely oxycodone. Mixed with dehydration, exhaustion, and at least one hard liquor. Lucky for him it was caught early, thanks to you, Chris. Avoided cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, hypoxic injury. Brain function intact. He’ll wake up sore, confused—but not lost. This is fixable.”
He glanced over at Chris, still pacing.
“Alright, med school, how about a pop quiz,” Connor said. “Why is hypoxia bad?”
Chris blinked. “Dad, come on, not now.”
“Yes now. Patients don’t wait for you to be emotionally ready. You keep your head, even when it’s breaking. Let’s go, I am waiting.”
Chris sighed. “Brain cells die fast. Four to six minutes without oxygen before permanent damage.”
“Good. And how does oxy suppress respiration?”
“Mu-opioid receptor activation. Dampens the CO₂ response in the brainstem. Slows breathing.”
“And dehydration?”
Chris rubbed his face. “Impairs clearance. Raises hypotension risk. Amplifies the toxicity.”
Connor nodded. “Excellent. Now—what’s your next move?”
Chris stopped pacing. Looked at Craig behind the glass. Silent. Curled into himself like he wasn’t just sleeping—he was retreating. Connor realized his son couldn’t be distracted by medical questions. This was too personal.
“I ignored him,” Chris said. “I was pissed. He hurt me and I wanted to hurt him back, punished him with silence. I told myself he didn’t deserve attention.”
Connor stepped forward and folded his arms around his son. Chris resisted—then broke. The sobs came quiet and sudden, buried in the familiar scent of aftershave and cotton.
“I thought I’d lose him,” he whispered. “I really thought I would, Dad.”
Connor held on until it passed. Then got them fresh coffee. Then sat with Chris.
Chris stared into the cup before speaking again. “I found some letters in his dorm, when I was looking for him. Academic probation. He’s close to failing out. He never told me. Well, how could he? I wasn’t talking to him. Shit!”
Connor nodded. “Maybe he tried. But you weren’t ready to hear it. Chris, beating yourself up now helps nobody. Learn from it, move on.”
Chris swallowed. “Cadie told me the real reason Sloane dumped him. She’s in love with Dean—Cadie’s brother. They’re engaged. I was going to talk to Craig today about it. And about everything else. I was ready to talk and it was almost too late.”
Connor laid a hand on his shoulder. “Almost doesn’t count. You are ready to talk, then talk. When he wakes up. Make it count. His parents are on a flight back from seeing his sister, they won’t make it until tomorrow morning. You’re all he’s got for now.”
The elevator dinged.
Cayla stepped out, Craig’s wife, for better or worse. Her hair was pulled into a rushed knot, eyeliner smudged, white chrysanthemums in hand—wrapped in pharmacy paper with the corner of a receipt still crumpled inside.
She saw Connor. Froze. “Dr. Cameron. Chris.”
Connor nodded. “Hi Cayla.”
Chris straightened, watching the girl he’d grown up with shrink under hospital fluorescents. “Hey.” he croaked out.
“I didn’t know it was this bad,” Cayla said. Her voice was even, but the words caught on something. “It’s been weeks since we last spoke, and last time we argued. He asked for space. I filed for annulment—it stalled, waited too long. So, I filed for divorce instead. I thought that’s what he wanted. But when I told him…” She swallowed. “He unraveled. Was so mad, something about trying to use him and dump him, made no sense. We fought so bad. None of it made sense. And then we stopped talking.”
She glanced at the window, not quite meeting Connor’s gaze. “I moved back in with my parents. It was all too weird. Now this. Damn it, Craig.”
Connor stayed steady. “Not your fault. Just terrible timing—and choices that were still green on the vine as a certain friend of mine would say.”
Cayla stepped to the glass. Didn’t go in. Didn’t reach for his hand. She placed the flowers gently on the windowsill and stood still, eyes tracing Craig’s outline through the reflection.
“I married a stranger,” she said finally. “My ex dumped me—said I was boring. Plain. Unspontaneous. That stung.”
She smiled bitterly. “So when Craig suddenly noticed me, all handsome and charm and compliments and flash, I got swept up. He was always so popular, magnetic—I mean, it felt good, being wanted by someone like him. We went on that trip. I didn’t think twice. When he said elope, I just… said yes. Half to prove how spontaneous I could be. Half because I didn’t want to feel dull anymore.”
Her voice thinned.
“By the time we landed back home, I knew we’d screwed up. My parents were heartbroken. My mom cried for hours. And then reality set in—Craig and I didn’t belong in the same future. We have absolutely nothing in common. He was already slipping, and I saw it but didn’t know what to do with it.”
She exhaled, slowly. “I tried to help. Tried to make it work. But I wasn’t the person he chose because he loved me—I was just the soft place to fall. A landing. Not the home he wanted to stay in.”
She looked at the flowers. “We said things you can’t unsay. Is he gonna make it?” she looked up at Connor, hopeful. He nodded. She closed her eyes, relief washing over her face.
Chris snorted gently, heart aching. “Do I even know any of you? My entire sandbox crew, all of you, everyone’s lost their minds. Noelle’s constantly MIA, we keep missing each other’s calls so it’s texts and phone tag, Juliet moved halfway across the planet, Penny is off chasing rainbows, I haven’t heard from Seth in ages, Craig’s—like this. And you married him. Seriously?”
Cayla turned. “Chris, you’re the worst at seeing people’s realities, you see who we were and who you think we are or should be. We’re all trying to survive. We all screw up and have to fix our mistakes. You too, Chris. Cutting Craig and me off after we eloped was seriously shitty of you. I mean, I get if, I would be pissed too, but not four months and counting. Your distance didn’t help Craig. If anything, made it worse. If he had you to fall into, he might not have ended up here. He really needs you now.”
She shoved the flowers into his arms. “Give them to him for me. I can’t do this. I’m done.”
And she left.
Chris stared after her, lips parted. “Dad, what the actual hell was that?”
Connor took the flowers gently and passed them to a nurse. “Bay Four. Window vase, please.”
Then: “It’s life, kid. And adulthood. Friendships buckle. People unravel. And you can’t always fix it. But you can stand still when someone needs you. I can’t speak to all of what she said, but that part she got right. Craig needs you now.”
Chris nodded slowly. “Okay, I wanna help, but I need help not making it worse. What do I do, Dad?”
Connor gave a dry smile. “You already doing it. You didn’t walk away. That’s half of it. Rest is just being there. Being present, listen.”
They stood together. Nurses moved past. Machines beeped. Craig breathed. A nurse gave Connor a faint nod.
Connor’s voice was soft again. “Go see him now, got green light. He’s not gonna be fully conscious yet but he may have some wake moments, but will be loopy. Don’t lecture. Don’t explain. Don’t expect anything. Sit. Say ‘I’m here.’ Let him lead. You show up. That’s the fix.”
Chris pressed his fist to his lips and nodded.
“Alright, I’m going in,” he said. “No fixes. Just presence.”
Connor clapped his shoulder once. “Exactly.”
Chris stepped into the room. Bay Four. East Pavilion. One chair beside a still body.
He sat.
Time to show up. And he started talking. About this and that, random things, childhood memories. Anything just so Craig would hear his voice and know he wasn’t alone.
But then—just as Chris was telling some half-baked story about their seventh grade science project exploding in the garage—he saw it.
A twitch. Small. Left cheek.
Then the slow lift of heavy eyelids.
Craig’s gaze was unfocused, pupils sluggish, but they landed on Chris with a kind of warmth that didn’t belong to any coherent sentence.
He blinked, tried to speak, failed.
Instead, his lips curved into a lopsided, watery smile—too slow, too crooked, like his face hadn’t caught up to the emotion yet.
Chris froze. Craig’s hand shifted, barely, then rested again on the blanket.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
That crooked smile was full of something unspeakable—relief, recognition, gratitude. Like even in the haze, he knew.
Chris swallowed hard. His chest ached. He hadn’t expected to feel anything yet—not this.
“Hey,” Chris whispered. “There you are! You scared the shit outta me, man.”
Craig blinked again, drowsy, but the smile lingered just long enough to make Chris feel every inch of the distance they’d traveled back from that dorm room floor.
No punchline. No explanation. Just presence.
Chris leaned back, softer now.
“I’m here.”
Craig’s eyelids fluttered closed again, but this time it looked more like rest than escape. And for the first time in weeks, Chris let the silence carry them—safe, imperfect, and showing up.
What Comes After Rock Bottom
Craig’s hospital room was quieter the next day. No machines blaring, just a soft rhythm of monitors and the scrape of a nurse’s shoes on polished tile.
Chris showed up just after noon, notebook tucked under his arm, a smoothie in one hand—half peace offering, half guilt snack. But before he reached the doorway, he saw two familiar figures stepping out.
Massimo and Carolina Douglas. Craig’s parents.
Carolina looked like she hadn’t slept, her bleach blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that still frizzed at the edges. Her eyes lit up when she saw Chris, tired but grateful. Massimo was broad-shouldered and stoic, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding—as if he’d been holding the sky up by sheer will.
Carolina hugged Chris first, arms tight. “Thank you for being here,” she said, voice full but not shaking. “He needs someone who sees him as more than the mistakes. So much guilt.”
Massimo followed, clap to the shoulder and something heavier in his eyes. “You were always solid, Chris. Not perfect—but solid. We used to joke Craig lucked out getting you in his orbit. You saved his life.”
Chris gave a half-smile, nodding. “Glad I’m here. Wish it was under better circumstances.”
They left quietly, exchanging parting glances that said: You’re family, too. Keep showing up.
Inside, Craig was awake. Pale. Eyes clearer but sunken. The IV stayed in, but the sarcasm returned just enough to raise a brow.
“Well,” he croaked, voice thin. “Even my parents wish you were their son, huh? Sadly for them they are stuck with the inconvenient mess who can’t get his shit together. Mwop, wmop. Sorry mom and dad.”
Chris stepped forward and handed over the smoothie—brown sugar, banana, flaxseed, the kind of blend that screamed “I care about your pancreas.”
“Don’t say I never spoil you,” he said dryly. “Something for your poor liver to rejoice over.”
Craig blinked at it, thumb tracing the rim like it might explain the last month better than he could. Then he took a tentative sip, exhaled through his nose, and tipped it again for a longer pull.
He let out a soft moan. “Ugh, this is disgustingly healthy and glorious, but actually shockingly tasty. Did you pay extra for the guilt aftertaste?”
Chris didn’t bite. Just sat back.
“Pretty sure it’s organic,” he said. “So the guilt’s hand-pressed and good for you. In other words, it’s my version of a subtle apology, in liquid form. Welcome back among the living. In other news: what the hell, dude?!”
Craig took another long sip, then leaned his head back against the pillow. “You spoil me, Cameron. One foot outta the grave and you’re already bullying me back to health with your disgusting logic and all.”
“You think that was bullying?” Chris snorted. “You haven’t seen nothing yet. You’re lucky you’re still breathing, pal. Seriously Craig … what is going on with you?”
Craig smiled—barely. But it stayed.
Then his thumb dragged again across the cup’s curve, slower this time.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he muttered. “Like, I can’t even see the start anymore. Everything’s tangled and backwards. When I managed to run you off, I gave up.”
“You didn’t run me off, you pissed me off. I admit I took the pouting way too far, sorry about that, but you seriously worked overtime on alienating everyone. It’s definitely fixable,” Chris said, “but you gotta stop pretending nothing’s wrong.”
Craig nodded slowly. “Copy that. There is a lot wrong with me. Docs said rehab. What I am on, you can’t just cold turkey yourself off of. So, I gotta drop out. At least for a while. Not really too big of a stretch as the university already had me halfway out the door too. Maybe college just isn’t for me. Another dream busted.”
Chris’s voice steadied. “Okay, let’s not decide anything like that right now. We’ll figure it out. You go to rehab, I’ll visit. Call. Send you dumb TikToks. Scream at you if you start knitting yourself entire outfits in group therapy.”
Craig sniffed and smirked. “Yeah, I’ll get clean, come back, win Sloane back, maybe write her a song or do some sappy shit chicks like—”
Chris cut in, dry and firm. “Nope.”
Craig blinked. “No?”
“No.” Chris leaned back. “That part’s done, man. She moved on. And not to hurt you—but because she found something, well someone she wanted longer than she’s known you, he became available and both started crushing. You didn’t have a fighting chance, and now it’s too late man. Let that one go and heal without that. I don’t think chewing this through is gonna help anything, so just take my word for it. Can ya do that?”
Craig sat with that.
Pain. Reality. Acceptance.
Chris continued, gentler now. “Recovery’s not a movie montage. It’s slow. Ugly. Boring sometimes and really tough other times especially with your choice of vices. But when you get out on the other side … you make your life work. Not some fantasy redo of things that never were. Full renaissance, okay?”
Craig nodded, staring at the ceiling. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fair. That’s real.”
Chris stood to stretch, glancing at the smoothie. “Drink that before the nurse confiscates it. You look like a rejected vampire. Thinking some vitamins can only help.”
Craig laughed, cracked and breathless. “Missed you, man.”
Chris nodded. “Missed you too. Even when you were being a complete dumpster fire.”
“Were?” Craig chuckled, Chris chimed in.
They sat in companionable silence after that, the monitor’s hum filling the gaps. And for the first time in months, Craig didn’t feel like he had to run.
Rehab Realities
Rehab didn’t look like healing. It looked like stripped walls, bitter coffee, and a check-in clipboard with too many boxes to tick. Craig sat on a bench outside the main building, hoodie pulled low over his brow, watching a squirrel bury something aggressively beside the vending machine.
He looked wrecked—but upright.
Chris showed up just after noon with a weathered backpack and a Starbucks cup in hand—iced brown sugar shaken espresso, Craig’s favorite since senior year when sleep stopped being free. He didn’t say much, just dropped into the spot beside him and held out the drink.
“Don’t say I never spoil you,” he muttered. “Figured you could use something caffeinated and nostalgic that doesn’t come in pill form.”
Craig took it slowly, fingers brushing the condensation. “You’re either my best friend or my enabler. Haven’t decided yet. All I know is—if I ever elope again, it’ll be with you. The coffee in this shed is more bitter than my regrets, and they ration it like liquid gold. I love you for this, no lie. After two sips I might be on one knee, bro.”
“So tempting,” Chris said. “But I think Cadie wouldn’t approve. She gets jealous, and I’ve seen her naked—and, regretfully, you as well. Just don’t make me choose. She’s got better arguments.”
Craig smirked faintly, then the humor cracked around the edges.
“I’m scared, man,” Craig said, serious now, voice thin and scratchy. “Like, really scared. It’s only been a few days and I swear, it’s hell between doses. I’m sweating through everything, I can’t sleep, my legs won’t stop twitching, and I feel like I’ve got the flu and food poisoning at the same time. They gave me something to take the edge off, but it barely touches it. I keep thinking—what if I don’t get better? What if this is just who I am now?”
He paused, eyes flicking toward the window like it might offer an exit.
“Part of me wishes you hadn’t found me in that shower.” His voice was dry. “They said I was maybe five minutes from respiratory failure. Five minutes. I don’t know if I should thank you or hate you for saving my ass.”
Chris didn’t blink. “You can do both. Hate me and thank me—while I go talk to the doctor about bumping your antidepressants, assuming you’re not already on something.”
A breath.
“That was your one free pass to say shit like that, Craig. Next time, I whistleblow. In case you forgot, I’m trying to be a doctor someday, ya know, to save lives and all. I’m not in the market for listening to my best friend talk about wishing he could check out early.”
Craig nodded, eyes low.
“So I’m still your best friend?”
Chris snorted. “What do you think? I keep showing up with overpriced smoothies, coffee and gossip because you’re so pretty?”
Craig gave a weak smile.
“I still don’t get how I got so far gone,” he whispered. “Like—I don’t even recognize the guy in my own head anymore.”
Chris shrugged. “Who knows, who cares. News flash: nobody’s perfect. You tried to carry more than you could handle and didn’t ask for help until it leveled you. That’s human. Ask my Uncle Jackson—he could start a whole podcast on how to implode relationships with maximum collateral damage. He’s super cool, don’t get me wrong, but he and my Aunt Bri are two hand grenades just waiting to pull each other’s pins at any given moment.”
Craig’s voice cracked again. “You really gonna keep showing up?”
Chris tapped the coffee cup in his hand. “Long as we’re reading the same chapter. No skipping ahead. But if you ever get married again without inviting me, I swear to God, I’m done.” Then, softer: “Joking aside… this isn’t just you starting over. It’s us too. I wasn’t exactly your MVP this year. I actually sucked bad in the friendship department. So yeah—this is both of us fixing our messes. And yeah, I am here like herpes, keep coming back whether you want me to or no.”
Craig sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Shit, now you’re making me cry, you douche. No more solo missions, promise. Hell, I’ll take you to the crapper with me if you wanna come.”
“Pass.”
“Thought you want to be a doctor. You could analyze my stool samples and do a piss test in real time. I mean, I am a Bonafide addict now. Yay me.”
“Tempting,” Chris said. “But I’ll wait till I’m licensed and paid for that type of pure joy. I am pretty sure the staff here wouldn’t want me to take their work away from them.”
Craig laughed—cracked, breathless—but genuine.
Then he reached into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a crumpled letter. The envelope was half torn, the paper soft at the corners.
“Got this in the mail too,” he said, handing it over.
Chris unfolded it. Across the top: Final Judgment of Dissolution of Marriage – Superior Court of San Sequoia County. Filed. Accepted. Signed by the judge. No property division. No alimony. Just clean language and a broken timeline.
“Officially single again,” he murmured. “They said it couldn’t be annulled—we were married too long. Months, not weeks. Long enough to mess things up in a way lawyers had to untangle.”
Craig let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “What a winner you got for a best friend. Twenty-one years old. Divorced. College dropout. Addiction problem. Wow. I’m a real catch. No wonder women take one good look and run the other way.”
Chris didn’t flinch. “Correction—some women. The smart ones know a fixer-upper when they see one.”
Craig snorted. “Yeah, maybe if they’re into demo work.”
“You’re not demo,” Chris said, voice steady. “You’ve got some interior damage upstairs, sure—but you’ve got character. Slightly haunted. Needs a good reno. But solid foundation.”
Craig blinked at him, lips twitching. “Slightly haunted? What am I, a Victorian ghost rental for weirdos?”
Chris leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Nah. Mid-century burnout. Original trim. Wiring’s a mess, but the bones are good.”
Craig groaned. “God, even your pep talks sound like HGTV.”
Chris offered a crooked smile. “You should hear my lecture on emotional drywall and friendship gaslighting.”
Craig snorted again—raw, quiet, but real. Then his eyes drifted back to the smoothie, condensation fogging under his grip.
“I still don’t know how I got here,” he said softly. “I blinked and everything I was supposed to be just… wasn’t.”
Chris nodded. “You’re not the only one.”
And maybe that was enough—for now.
Chris leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, you can beat yourself up all day. I’m not stopping you cos even if I’d duct tape your trap shut, you’d still be thinking it, and I get it. We all hate ourselves now and then. But I’m not leaving either. And I’d rather you direct some of that spite outward. Depression doesn’t get to have the last word.”
Craig stared at the wall, jaw tight. “You really think I can crawl out of all this?”
“I think you already did,” Chris said. “We’re just wiping off the dirt.” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, you’re just living early. Not glamorous—but real. And you’re still here, which counts. Rest is fixable.”
Craig stared at the envelope, eyes hollow but focused. “Cayla and I barely knew each other. I mean—I knew her because you did, but I never looked closer. If I had, I would’ve seen it. I knew she wasn’t my type. The only thing we ever had in common was you, Chris. That’s it.”
Craig’s mouth twisted, half a laugh, half a wince. “I proposed for stupid reasons. She said yes for… different ones. Two people with busted hearts hoping a marriage license could plug the leak. Dumb, I know. But I figured—hey, gotta one-up you, right?”
Chris blinked. “One-up me? I missed the part where I got married. When did that happen? Do I know who, or is it a surprise?” he said sarcastically.
Craig nodded, voice going low and sharp. “You didn’t. That’s the one-up part. You tattooed Indie all over yourself, and as a thanks, she turned up pregnant from a one-night stand with some stranger who had his own wife knocked up too. Then there was Noelle—childhood soulmate turned casual hookup. Moved cross-country, without you, didn’t even flinch. She wasn’t in love, man, we all could see it. She wanted sex and space while you were all in again. The only reason you didn’t ink her name all over yourself was because you know your parents would kill you if you did that again.”
He rubbed his hands together, gaze distant. “Guess I saw your disasters and thought, ‘I can top that.’ So I raised you an elopement and a chemical spiral. No wonder Cayla hates me.”
Chris spoke gently. “Cayla doesn’t hate you, just refiled you under reality. And thanks for using my failures to inspire you to go rogue. Now I feel much better.”
Craig sniffed. “Sorry, but nice to see you screw up too, sometimes. You’re always so perfect—perfect life, perfect parents, perfect grades, perfect family, perfect dogs in your perfect house. You are that guy all we other kids always got compared to. ‘Why can’t you be more like Chris?’ We all heard it at some point or another. The whole clique has.”
Chris’s expression didn’t shift at first—but his voice did. “God,” he said quietly, “you really believe that?”
“We all lived it, Christian. No belief needed.”
“Dude, don’t you realize that the only reason I have my shit together is BECAUSE my family, especially my parents, ARE all over me and always have been? And if they weren’t, my grandparents were. They smell my mistakes before I get around to making them and sit me down for lectures ahead of time. Probably because they recognized a familiar pattern. My family is a lot of things, but perfect is not one of them.”
He sighed. “Well, be that as it may, Mr. Perfect, all I know is that I feel shitty about the Cayla situation. She’s a sweet girl. Just not for me. I didn’t treat her right, even before she made herself my ex-wife. You think she’ll talk to me again someday? Not sure about what—we really have zero common ground but you. Maybe you have to be our topic. Ha. Better start doing some really cool shit, man, so I don’t run out of material.”
Chris smiled. “I’ll get right on that. And yeah—Cayla’s cool. She’ll talk to you again when you’re just Craig again. The guy who’s finally owning his own story. There’s nothing to forgive. You both made a mistake. It’s being fixed. Moving on.”
Craig nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s fair. I like the way you think.”
He took several deep sips.
Chris shifted, brushing fuzzies off his jeans with dramatic precision. “Well, if your therapist asks how today went, go with: hydrated, slightly emotionally ventilated, and still under construction.”
Craig raised his smoothie in a half-salute. “Right on. Thanks for the drink. And the unsolicited TED Talk, Dr. Cameron.”
Chris smirked. “Thanks for not dying. Physically, anyway. Mentally, you’ve been braindead since high school.”
That earned him a middle finger and a crooked smile.
Craig lifted his brow, deadpan. “Please. My brain hasn’t been in my head since I discovered boobs and beer. It migrated south around age thirteen and never renewed its passport.”
Chris blinked. “So you’re saying your cognitive function is trapped in your pants?”
Craig smirked. “Best I can tell, yeah. That’s where most of my regrets come from, so I assume that’s headquarters.”
Chris shook his head, laughing despite himself. “God help whatever therapist pulls your intake file.”
Craig raised his smoothie like a toast. “As long as it’s a she and has nice boobs. If I’m gonna unpack my trauma, I’d at least like some visual distraction.”
Chris gave him a look. “You’re in detox, dumbass—not a casting call for porn-with-a-PhD. They’re trying to save your life, long-term, not organize you hook-ups to make your stay more pleasant, you dork.”
Craig grinned. “What? I like my therapy spicy, don’t hate. All I got left at this point. And you. But I think you wouldn’t like knowing I am thinking of you when I go knee-deep into the depths of my soul.”
Chris gave him a slow blink. “Yeah… maybe keep me out of your Freudian fantasies. I don’t need my likeness popping up in whatever emotionally haunted nudefest your subconscious is hosting.”
Craig snorted. “Too late. You’re my emotional support giraffe. Tall, judgy, and biologically incapable of minding your own business. You’re everywhere. Like taco stands in summer.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Deep, coming from someone who couldn’t roll a tortilla right now.”
Craig pointed weakly. “Let the record show: Dr. Cameron Jr.’s bedside manner is trash.”
Chris leaned back with a smug grin. “Technically, almost Dr. Cameron—but thanks for the crash course in emergency drama. My profs were impressed. Dad made me sound like a daytime TV hero. All that was missing was a stethoscope and a white horse.”
Craig snorted. “You forgot the wind machine. If you had hair like your dad it could have been flapping in the wind like a flag of honor.”
Chris pointed at his own chest. “Oh, it was there. You just didn’t feel it because your brain was off rerouting itself through your pants.”
Craig raised the smoothie again, mock-solemn. “Here’s to mental misfires and budget off-brand heroism.”
Chris bowed slightly. “If I’d known there’d be audience reviews, I would’ve worn scrubs tighter than my emotional boundaries. Giving the ladies what they came there for.”
Craig raised his smoothie like a toast. “Well, cheers to emotionally constipated giraffes in tight pants and codependent crises.”
Chris leaned in and gave him a too-tight bro hug. Unapologetic. Chest-to-chest. Hoodie-to-latte. The kind that flattened rib cages but held everything else together.
“I love you, idiot,” he said into the fold of Craig’s shoulder.
Craig didn’t pull away. “Love you too, man. Thanks for being the one constant in a year full of implosions. I owe you, man.”
Chris pulled back with a sniff. “Lucky for you, I don’t have standards I could hold you to.”
Craig laughed through his nose. “Lucky for me, you never needed any.”
They sat like that a little longer, no sunshine required—just stripped walls, emotional chaos, and two guys who knew each other’s wreckage and still chose to stay.
And for the first time in a while, Craig didn’t feel like a cautionary tale.
He just felt like someone trying.
Visitation
They arrived just after lunch.
The air outside the clinic was sharp but quiet, a breeze rustling through native rosemary along the stone walkway. Cadie pressed her palms together as they approached the glass doors, eyes lingering on the brass lettering: San Sequoia Wellness and Recovery Institute.
Chris glanced at her, balancing a wobbly tray of coffees—three cups, one for each of them. The names were scribbled across the sides in permanent marker, butchered by a barista clearly overwhelmed or mildly chaotic.
Before they stepped inside, Chris gave Cadie’s hand a soft squeeze.
“If you wanna wait in the cafeteria, that’s okay,” he said gently. “You don’t have to do this.”
Cadie offered a tight-lipped smile. “I am doing this. If he wants me to leave, I will. But I need to try.”
They checked in at the front desk—chatty nurse, slow badge printer, light small talk—and were led down the east wing to a room that looked more like a dorm than a detox unit. Neutral bedding. Corkboard wall. Generic encouragement poster peeling at one corner.
Craig was propped against the bed frame, hoodie half-zipped, one sock halfway on like he’d gotten distracted somewhere around dignity. A spiral notebook lay face-down beside him, bent at the spine.
He looked up—blinked—and stared.
Cadie raised a hand in greeting, voice calm. “Hey, Craig.”
Chris gave a nod and lifted the drink tray like it was a peace offering. “Brought caffeine. Figured you wouldn’t mind company with a side of sugar.”
Craig rubbed his face slowly, then scooted up against the pillows. “The more the merrier. Welcome to my private rehab abode. Complete with mood swings and institutional linens. I did have a roommate when I got here, not sure what happened to him. Hoping it wasn’t my charm—or the profuse sweating in between doses of Suboxone. They say it helps, but I still feel like I’m auditioning for a flu-themed horror film.”
Chris started sorting the cups like a detective at a crime scene. “Okay, rapid-fire question. Do you wanna be ‘Crack,’ ‘Grass’—because clearly the barista had getting high on the brain—or…” He lifted the final cup, squinting. “…‘Candy’? This one’s got whipped cream, so I’m guessing it’s Cadie, and I’m definitely not drinking that.”
Craig reached for his cup and grimaced. “Guess I’m Crack. Makes sense. I’m in rehab, I’ve got a twitch, and I’m holding a cup with what should be my street name on it. Somebody take a picture so the staff can add it to my ‘Do Not Trust With Utensils’ file. My parents would be so proud.”
Cadie blinked. “Did they seriously write ‘Candy’ on mine? Cadie doesn’t even sound like Candy.”
Chris snorted handing her the cup. “I think the barista heard your name and said ‘I got you, boo’ and just went full stripper aesthetic. I am sure there is compliment in there somewhere.”
Cadie cracked a smile and shook her head. “More like they were thinking of grass and crack, probably already had some in the system and were getting the munchies. Perfect for visiting someone in rehab with. Sorry about that Craig. Swear we didn’t look.”
Craig chuckled low. “No worries I am not that delicate. Maybe I should take the stripper drink. Strippers have confidence. I could use some of that. I think I left mine in the showers you found me in, Chris. I mean ‘Grass’.”
Craig gave the cup a slow sniff. “Smells like my life has meaning again. At least until this cup is empty again.”
Cadie stepped closer, pausing at the foot of the bed. “Speaking of … I am here to tell you you’re still important to me, Craig. You didn’t stop being my friend just because things got ugly and I hope it’s the same on your end. What Sloane did—that’s not on me. And she isn’t a bad person, just … umm … well … preoccupied with stuff. Okay?”
Craig stared at her, jaw tight. “Chill girl, I never hated you. You’re my best friend’s girl, so you are A-Ok with me.”
Cadie stepped around the bed, slow and unsure. “Can I hug you, or is that too weird?”
Craig swallowed. “Not weird. Your boyfriend likes to cup a feel every time he dropped by before they moved me here, so like I said, the more, the merrier.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “You wish. Lies, Cadie—he’s just trying to make you jealous.”
Cadie didn’t laugh. She sat beside Craig and wrapped her arms around him—gentle, steady, like muscle memory.
Craig stiffened, then gave in, head resting on her shoulder. “Missed you,” he said, low.
“I missed you too,” Cadie whispered. “I’m sad you thought you couldn’t come to Chris. I feel responsible, because it all started with Sloane and you met her because of me.”
They didn’t let go right away. And maybe that was the point.
Craig looked down once he released her. “Nah, I know I am a dumbass, but not that bad.” When he looked up, he forced a smile and changed the topic. “Sorry for the drive, my parents said they couldn’t stand the thought of me being anywhere else. They made a few phone calls and got me transferred here, closer to them, further for you, but they were adamant they wanted me near and right here.”
“No, we get it. Easier for them to swing by after work.”
Craig nodded. “Part of it, but the main part was who runs this clinic. They wanted me in the fine and capable hands of one Dr. Cameron, Chief Medical Officer of this fine establishment right here. They got him to spearhead the whole thing. They asked for him directly. Said he’s the only one they trust to make real calls about their precious little boy. I am sure you hear all about it later at dinner, Chris. My parents went full parent mode on your dad, like totally guilt tripped him into agreeing. Sorry about that. They are struggling with the idea of a kid in rehab to begin with.”
Chris blinked. “Wait, my dad’s running your care? That should have been worth a text by him.”
“Was just finalized today,” Craig said. “But yeah. Intake, program mapping, therapist selection—they want him watching everything. My dad was on your dad like white on rice about this. Like any other doc would screw me up worse than I am.’”
Chris didn’t respond right away. Then: “Sounds like him.”
Craig shifted, thumb dragging across the seam in his blanket. “It’s weird, I guess. Your dad steering my rebuild. Then again, he’s known me forever. He remembers what I should be like when I am not a wreck.”
Chris leaned forward. “They are just making sure you don’t fall through the cracks again.”
Craig let out a bitter laugh. “Pretty sure I was the crack. Probably still am.”
Cadie sat, careful not to crowd him. “Not anymore. You got this.”
Craig glanced up. “Do you REALLY think I can come back from this? It’s all fun and games till withdrawals hit. It really is hell then.”
Chris spoke first. “Yup. I think you can and you will.”
Then Cadie added, “Bigger and better, yeah, I am certain you got this.”
Craig looked between them, throat tight. “Okay. Thanks guys.”
Chris pulled the coffee sleeve off and set the cup on the table. “Drink that before they try to put you on the bland tea circuit.”
Craig gave him the smallest smile, then reached for it. He cheered them, they responded.
They stayed a little longer. Not to fix anything. Just to remind him: he hadn’t been forgotten.
Recovery Recap
Craig spent ten and a half weeks in inpatient rehab, riding out the storm under Dr. Cameron’s watchful eye. Suboxone handled the worst of the withdrawal. Therapy pried open old shame. Journals filled with guilt and gallows humor.
In his final week, Craig was moved to transitional outpatient care—daily check-ins, group meetings, strict medication management. After that: a sober living apartment two blocks from campus and a green-light to enroll part-time.
He started slow: one psych class, one lit seminar, and a mindfulness elective his counselor guilted him into. He passed the orientation, met with student services, and got assigned a recovery mentor who wore ironic dad shirts and gave him exactly one laminated brochure titled Addiction Doesn’t Define You (Unless You Let It).
Craig rolled his eyes. Then went anyway.
The Illusion of Normal
Chris met him after class every day, like clockwork—sometimes with granola bars, sometimes with sarcasm. Cadie checked in weekly. Craig texted back with emojis and actual punctuation.
He laughed more. Ate more. Slept better. Campus life welcomed him back like a lost bookmark slipped between the pages of sophomore year.
Professors offered grace. Classmates pretended not to notice. Craig wore hoodies like armor and kept his head down, but he showed up. He was doing it.
Ponies and rainbows. Cue credits.
Except, this wasn’t how these things go. Every up is always followed by a low.
Delusions of Normalcy
It was a Wednesday.
Chris timed it perfectly—waiting by Craig’s psych building, snacks in hand, a half-joke about post-rehab test nerves ready to go.
The hallway emptied. No Craig.
A girl from lit said she hadn’t seen him. A guy with earbuds shrugged.
Text. Call. Nothing.
Craig’s roommate confirmed he’d left that morning. Hoodie on, books and binder in hand. Quiet. Nothing strange.
Chris searched. Library. Student health. Commons. Behind the athletic building. Even checked the rooftop garden nobody used.
Then turned the corner by the bio building.
And there he was.
Slouched against the wall. Eyes glazed. Hoodie pulled tight. Breath shallow—not panicked, just… vacant. Chris crouched.
“Craig?”
No response.
“Hey. Earth to burnout. What’s in you?”
Craig blinked once. No tracking. His hand trembled.
Chris spotted the pack—Gabapentin, a nerve pain med sometimes misused for anxiety and withdrawal, stacked with diphenhydramine and THC lozenges. A cocktail of fuzz. Enough to dull the world. Not enough to erase it.
He didn’t wait.
Chris dragged Craig upright, arm over his shoulder, carried him halfway across campus and into his car.
The Camerons’ House, San Sequoia — That Night
Connor Cameron left work early. Met them in the driveway.
Chris said nothing—just helped lift Craig from the passenger seat with his dad and carry him inside. Guest bedroom. Lights dimmed. Breath still shallow.
“He’s on a feedback loop,” Connor murmured, checking his pulse. “The Gabapentin isn’t life-threatening at this dose, but paired with THC? Could confuse his receptors. Risk of regression.”
Chris’s voice cracked. “Please… keep it off the books. Just this once. Dad, he’s tried so hard, just one slip-up. Please, dad. Craig just needs a chance for a course correction.”
Connor was silent.
Then: “You get one. From now on, he’s your responsibility. If this happens again, I report it—no hesitation, no discussion. One more fallback and doors close on Craig again for another stint at rehab. For his own sake, not because I am trying to swing my business on you both. Clear?”
Chris nodded. “Understood. Thank you.”
Connor softened, but his voice stayed firm. “You’re starting to understand why they call this a calling. It’s not a nine-to-five job—it’s unpredictable, exhausting, and sometimes heartbreaking. But if you can save even one life? It’s worth every rough night and every moment of doubt. Maybe this will be your first story like that. One you’ll hold onto when everything else starts to fray.”
The Next Morning
The kitchen was sunlit. Quiet. Smelled like lemon polish and cinnamon toast, and strong, fresh coffee.
Craig shuffled in slowly, damp hair curling at the edges, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands. He looked wrecked—but present. Not high. Just hollowed out and stitched together by sleep and regret.
Connor stood at the stove with a coffee mug, flipping scrambled eggs with surgical precision. He didn’t move like a clinician today. Just a dad making breakfast too late in the morning for it to be casual.
He glanced at Craig and nodded once. “Morning. Glad you’re lucid.”
Craig sank into the chair like it had opinions. “I feel hungover as hell. Was that your punishment for me being a dumbass? That drug you gave me,” he muttered, “feels like I got hit by a truck made of chlorine and regret.”
Connor didn’t flinch. “Then it’s working. You know where the cups are, coffee’s fresh and you are not on an all-inclusive vacation here, kid. Part of the family, act like it.”
Craig blinked slowly while raising up, walking over, opening a cupboard and grabbing a mug, pouring himself some of the steaming hot life juice he so desperately needed. “It has a name, right? That drug I mean. So I can thank it properly or curse it like a Greek god?”
“Rapid-acting opioid antagonist with mild sedative effects,” Connor said. “I call it a circuit breaker. Stops relapse before it gets teeth.”
Craig winced. “You sure? Feels like it still bit me.”
Connor set the spatula down and turned fully. “Craig—this isn’t something you joke about. The only reason I could administer that drug was because once more, Chris found you in time, as there is a very limited timeframe for effectiveness. Look kid, you are going to start running out of luck. And I don’t want any of that on Chris, he’s torn up enough about this and worried about you. I get it. It’s hard. Withdrawal scrapes at everything and it not always your fault. But you know what to do when the talons of the addiction starts scratching on your insides, you HAVE to stick to the plan, shortcuts will cost more than you think. And right now, no drug is safe. Not even cold meds or headache pills. You’re not chemically neutral. You’re barely rebooted.”
Craig swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah.”
That’s all he said.
From the hallway, Keira popped in grabbing Craig into a hug from behind, placing a tiny peck on his temple. Her tone was sweet, but her eyes were sharp.
“Ready for the lectures?” she asked. “Maybe some maternal scolding layered with disappointment and unconditional love?”
Craig groaned. “Can I opt out of the guilt casserole?”
Keira set her own cup on the counter and crossed her arms. “Opting out of consequences was a relapse ago. You’re here. You’re safe. But you’re also benched from emotional chaos and unsupervised decision-making. We all knew relapse was a risk, but almost immediately after you got out of rehab. That’s weak, Craig.”
Chris leaned against the fridge, arms folded. “Translation: she loves you—but you’re on the emotional timeout mat. Smile. Nod. Do anything she asks.”
Craig cracked the ghost of a smile. “I do have a mother too, you know. I know how they operate.”
Keira didn’t blink. “Yes, and yours nearly ran a red light last night when I texted her. If you don’t call her today, I will.”
Craig looked at Connor. “Do they know?”
Connor set his mug down slowly. “Nope, but whether it stays that way depends on you. I told Chris last night—this was a one-time off-record grace. We just told them you had a very rough time and needed a break from campus and were at our house. But next time, my friend, it’s on the record, and you’ll go for another stint at the clinic, another three months minimum. No loopholes.”
Craig nodded. “Yes Sir. Understood.”
Keira softened, brushing his hair back like she had when he was ten and feverish from playing in the treehouse in the rain. “I do think you should consider remote studies. Or the community college in town, just for a semester or two. Until you have your feet fully underneath you again. Clearly, the pressure is too much right now, why chance it?”
Craig glanced up, surprised.
She held steady. “It’s not about prestige—it’s about proximity and what you can handle on your own right now. If you enroll locally, you could come home every day. Let your parents help keep the load light until your footing’s solid.”
Connor chimed in. “You’d have counseling nearby, medication management, and zero pressure to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
Chris stepped closer. “And bonus—I’d still see you every weekend when I come home.”
Craig let his gaze drift across all three of them. This wasn’t pity.
It was strategy. They were helping and he knew it.
And maybe, finally, a way forward that didn’t ask him to fake being fixed.
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
Keira placed a muffin onto his plate with the kind of flourish only earned through deep family loyalty while Connor slid scrambled eggs and bacon on it, only for Chris to finish off with a slice of hot toast.
Craig chuckled, shaking his head.
Chris grinned. “Closer to functional adulthood, one bite at a time.”
Craig exhaled. Then took the bite.
Slow Healing
One semester off-campus turned into two. Craig moved back in with his parents and swapped frat parties for occasional porch coffee with Connor and Keira at 7PM sharp. He picked up remote courses, then part-time classes at the local community college. No announcements. No declarations. Just quiet effort. Testing his limitations, his comfort zone.
Every Friday night, he drove himself to group. No drama. No speeches. Just quiet nods and three words that saved him more times than he’d ever admit: I showed up.
Chris came home most weekends. They hung out, played sports. Ate junk food— but never booze. Rewatched movies they’d memorized at thirteen. Mocked each other mercilessly. Celebrated each other quietly.
It wasn’t easy. There were nights they were up at 2AM, calling, texting, holding each other together through phone static and dread. Every time Craig felt the spiral start, even just in thought, he’d text Chris. And Chris always replied right away.
Sometimes he interrupted studying to talk his best friend off an emotional ledge. Sometimes he left parties early so he could hear what Craig was saying between the lines. Sometimes he paused intimate moments with Cadie just to be present for Craig. And Cadie never once complained.
Craig’s life wasn’t rehab. And it wasn’t rebellion.
It was something slower. Not perfect. Not tragic. Just real. Healing.
One spring afternoon, Craig stood on the back porch, sun warm against his shoulders, hoodie sleeves pushed up past skin that used to tremble more than it healed. Chris stepped out behind him, granola bar in hand.
Craig grinned. “You and those granola bars, man. I dream of giant ones chasing me through forests trying to eat me. So I start eating them first. Very adult of me.”
Chris tossed the bar. “That’s what adulthood is—eat or get eaten.”
Craig caught it.
Sometimes they sat in silence. Just present. Just breathing.
Other times they wouldn’t shut up—laughing, teasing, rewinding memories they’d already lived twice.
Craig looked like himself again. Even sounded like himself. So much so that he’d come home now and then with a girl’s number scribbled on a napkin or class printout. He’d stare at it, smile—then toss it in the trash.
He wasn’t ready for love. Not yet.
For now, he needed me-time. And a very limited crowd.
And for the first time in years, that was enough.
The Envelope
The late afternoon light slanted warm against the siding as Craig rolled into the driveway, bike tires crunching softly on gravel. Backpack swung over one shoulder, hoodie tugged halfway up his sleeves, and that little whistle he only did when life felt manageable—for once, it did.
He waved at Mrs. Tyson, still walking her ridiculously well-trained terrier, and unlocked the front door with ease. Inside, the house felt quiet but alive: faint laundry scent, subtle hum from the fridge, sun trailing across the hardwood like it belonged there.
“Mom, I’m home!” he called out. Then paused mid-step. “Right… Thursday. In-office day. Look at me, talking to myself again.”
He set his backpack down, ambled back to the front door, and opened the mailbox.
Catalogs. Flyers. Bills.
He wandered toward the kitchen, dropped the mail onto the counter. He didn’t give it a second glance. Just let the pile fall where it wanted.
Pop-Tart box in hand, he grabbed the last cinnamon one, ripped it open with dramatic flair, and tossed the empty carton back into the pantry.
Then froze.
“Okay, yeah. She’s going to kill me,” he said to no one. “Mail all over. Empty box in the panty. And running all over the house with my shoes on. Am I even house-trained?”
With an exaggerated sigh, he kicked his sneakers off by the door, straightened the mail pile, recycled the box, and bowed at the pantry like a man who’d just survived a morality test. “Growth, ladies and gentlemen. Look at me adulting over here. Too bad nobody’s around to witness.”
He cracked open a Coke, flopped onto the couch, and clicked the TV remote. Foxbury University’s home game against Britechester was mid-broadcast. Commentators droning. Cheerleaders vibrating. Camera panned to the lineup.
Craig leaned in, eyes brightening. “Let’s go, Foxbury—home of overpriced vending machines and Mother-Theresa-like linebackers! Ah, speaking of the devil, there he is, the man himself. Cheers bro, time to smoke some Britchester butt!”
Helmet cam zoomed on Number 87—Chris Cameron—charging across the field like tactical vengeance in cleats.
Craig grinned. “There he is. Captain Cameron, MD, himself. You better catch something besides turf today.”
The team scored. Craig raised his Coke like a toast. “College football. The thing that once seemed to matter – until it didn’t.”
The touchdown replay faded into ads.
His phone buzzed.
Craig glanced down, still smiling. “This better be Mr. Football checking in.”
Instead notifications encore: Noelle reacted to a post. Seth commented. Juliet liked. Penny shared.
“Jeeze dudes, I get it. You all have lives, while I need to have mine pureed and spoon-fed to me by mommy, daddy and the Cameron-princes over here. Go forth then, be functional and fabulous. No need to rub my face in it with five million notifications of all the fun everyone is having.”
Another buzz. Then three more.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s so friggin’ interesting, huh?”
Curious now, he tapped the link—just a friend-of-a-friend thing. No direct tags. But familiar names stacked in notifications like a breadcrumb trail.
Then came the photo.
White veil. Champagne. Glitter-filter caption.
Sloane Harper Ellington & Dean Moore
Married in Oasis Springs • Forever & Always
Craig’s thumb froze mid-scroll.
Photos streamed in—ceremony, dance floor, cake, sunset send-off, all choreographed in pastel perfection.
She looked radiant. Untouched by their history. No tag, no mention, no link whatsoever to Craig, like he never existed in her life at all.
Just erased. Forgotten. Replaced.
Craig sat back. Coke fizzing quietly. Remaining Pop-Tart untouched.
And the screen kept loading. More and more reminders of the life he thought he would have. With her.
End of Chapter
EchoesOfLegacy 