Page 18 of Arrogant Puck

Small. White. Easy.

Archer laying on the ice, lifeless, slips into my mind, unwelcomed. But it doesn’t lead me to pop the pill this time.

Not because I don’t want to—but because I know where that road goes.

Instead, I swallow back the ache, the noise, the constant need tofeel fucking anything—and I drop to the ground. Push-ups until my arms give out. Then planks. Then squats.

By the time I fall to the floor, my muscles are screaming, but at least I’m too tired to think.

I lie here, chest rising, heartbeat in my throat.

This is better than drugs.

Not by much.

Later, I sit on the balcony with a hoodie pulled over my head, city lights in the distance, smoke from a cigar curling around me. I think about nothing. I let the cold creep in.

Some people would call this depression.

I call it maintenance.

Tomorrow’s another practice. Another classroom. Another hit.

Chapter 7

I’m in the bathroom, brushing dry shampoo through second-day hair, when Emma knocks lightly on the open door.

She leans against the frame, casual, like we’re closer than we are.

“Hey,” she says, not pushing. “You doing anything tonight?”

I glance at her in the mirror. “No plans.”

She nods, playing with the end of her sleeve. “There’s this place I like—Bar Lucid. Chill. Loud enough to be distracting. You should come.”

I hesitate.

She doesn’t press. Just smiles at me like it doesn’t matter either way.

I almost say no. But I’ve been here less than two weeks, and I’ve done nothing outside of work. My nights have been reruns, frozen dumplings, and anxiety I can’t name. I haven’t gone outwith girlfriends in months. Haven’t saidyesto anything that wasn’t mandatory.

Maybe it’s a good time to try.

“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. Sure.”

She brightens, just a little. “Cool. Get ready. We’ll leave at nine.”

I get ready in silence, curling my lashes with hands that still shake sometimes.

I don’t do nightlife. I don’t do casual outfits that show skin. I don’t do girls’ nights out.

But tonight, I will try.

Jeans that hug. A tank that dips low. Lip gloss I haven’t worn since dorm life in college. I don’t love how I look, but I don’t hate it either.

When I step into the living room, Emma’s sitting on the arm of the couch, legs crossed, eyes sharp. She smiles.

“You clean up nice.”

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