Dan Daiquiri

By day two, the illusion had started to crack.

Not in a dramatic way. No breakdown, no overdose, no police at the door. Just that slow, creeping dread that the last few months of so-called “partying” had hollowed me out. Routines that started as fun turned into obligation. Get up. Get booze. Get numb. Repeat.

It was never just a couple of drinks. Never a quiet night. The flats were always filled with noise, mess, people who didn’t know each other’s names but shared the same addiction to connection. Bottles of vodka lined up like tombstones. Cans, spills, crushed-up skin packets underfoot. I was surviving on caffeine, sugar and poison, barely eating. Still going to work. Still showing up to college. Somehow. Like the rest of me could fall apart as long as those two things stayed standing.

I didn’t even have proper contacts for drugs, which felt ridiculous given how long I’d been on the scene. I always had to ask around. I was well into my twenties, still acting like a teenager in over his head.

That morning, I’d been given a number. A red Corsa, the anonymous guy said. I waited on the street, pacing, sweating, trying to keep my face still. My stomach turned when it pulled up.

The horn blared. Too loud. Too sharp. A jolt through the chest. Two guys got out, thick set, looked through me like they’d already decided what I was- a mark. I got in. Didn’t even think twice. This wasn’t legit, or in the case of a drug transaction illegitimately legit. Something was off.

I was boxed in. No room to breathe. I didn’t speak. Didn’t blink too long. Just handed over the money when the driver reached back with the bag. I knew before I’d even taken them upstairs, it wasn’t right. Nothing about it felt right.

I told myself I’d test them. That maybe I was being paranoid. But deep down, I already knew. I whapped the bag out and inspected them.

The pills were chalky. Light. No smell, no real colour. Still, I blasted music. Took two. Swigged vodka straight from the bottle like that would smooth the fear out. A half bottle chug, easy peasy.

Waited.

Half an hour.

Nothing.

An hour.

Still nothing.

I sat there in silence, chewing on my own shame. The flat was too quiet. My head too loud. It wasn’t just the money. It was the way I kept doing this to myself. The way I kept trying to disappear, even when nothing was chasing me.

And then, like I always did when I couldn’t face the silence, I reached for a distraction. That’s when I got his number again.

Jack.

I hadn’t seen him in years. We used to run about town like we owned it. Shared fags, stories, plans we never meant to keep. He was light in those dark teenage years. Always smiling. Always moving. Like he never needed to rest.

I messaged him.

“You got?”

He replied right away. Said he had some banging Mandy. I got ready, took a swig and bolted across town. It took twenty minutes, but I barely noticed. My head was still spinning from the chalk and the shame. I was hoping he’d pull me out of it. That just seeing someone familiar would make me feel something again. I needed a buzz and whether that would come from connection or disconnecting the jury was out.

He looked exactly the same. Same buzz in his step. Same cheeky grin. Like nothing had changed. But it had, we’d all changed. Stuck in a funny nostalgia that we feel can be physically and emotionally relived, until we realise it doesn’t exist.

We caught up like strangers who used to be brothers. Talked fast. Laughed a bit. Said the same line everyone says when they don’t know how to say goodbye.

“We should catch up properly soon.”

And then he was gone.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I’d ever see him. No warning. No sign. Just the cold, bitter truth that you never get told when someone’s leaving your life forever.

If I’d known, I’d have said more. I’d have held onto the moment instead of rushing off to get mandied. The kind of rush that was to save my own struggle. I would’ve asked him how he really was. Not just the usual nod and grin. Not just the banter. I guess our acknowledgement of shared pain could’ve possibly helped.

But I didn’t even tread it.

And now every time I think of him, I go back to that final moment. That last smile. That last sentence. Frozen. Meaningless. Meaning everything.

And I wonder how many more people I will lose this way. How many more times I won’t realise it’s the last time, until it’s too late. Gone forever.