I told myself this morning would be different. New leaf, deep breath, fresh start—all that shit. I even brewed herbal tea instead of coffee, like that was going to make a difference. Like peppermint would drown the ache.
But by 10 a.m., I was already itching.
It always starts with silence. The wrong kind. Too smooth. Too still. Like standing in a room with no mirrors—nothing reflecting back at me. That’s when the tremble begins. Not in my hands, not visibly. It’s deeper than that. Internal. A twitch behind the ribs. The thirst.
So I poked the wound.
Texted Jason something vague but heavy:
“I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Sent it and left my phone screen up, waiting for it to light.
It only took him six minutes to bite.
“What do you mean?”
Hook set.
I could’ve cleared it up. I could’ve said, “Oh, nothing, I’m just being weird.” But where’s the hit in that? No. I layered it slowly. Built the tension. Suggested without confirming. Made him sweat. Made myself feel real.
That’s the part no one gets. It’s not about hurting people. Not exactly. It’s about feeling something so loud it drowns out everything else. Their confusion, their defensiveness, their needy questions—each one is a little needle jab of relief.
By lunch, I’d started a fight with my sister over something she posted on Facebook. Commented under it, something ambiguous that could be taken wrong. She messaged me, asking if I was okay. I waited fifteen minutes, then just replied:
“I guess not.”
The dopamine kicked in then. I felt it surge behind my eyes. That swelling heat, that pressure, that weird edge-of-crying sensation that tells me I’m finally alive again. Because for a moment, everyone’s looking at me. Even if it’s through narrowed eyes.
Later, around 4 p.m., I messaged my ex. Not because I miss him—God, no. But he always reacts. Always opens old wounds.
“Ever think we gave up too soon?”
Did I believe it? Doesn’t matter. His reply—three paragraphs of emotional spiraling—was the fix I needed to ride the afternoon.
I know what you’re thinking. That I’m toxic. That I ruin lives. That I should stop.
But this thing I chase? It’s not something you can just quit. It has claws. It curls around your spine and feeds off attention like it’s oxygen.
There’s a high in watching someone unravel because of you. A sick, cold thrill in being the spark and the blaze all at once. Even the aftermath—the apologies, the regret, the silence—is just another flavor of the same drug. Bittersweet, but it lingers.
I tell myself I’ll quit. That tomorrow I won’t pick a fight, won’t press the bruise, won’t dig the knife in just to see what bleeds.
But the truth?
Peace is a desert, and I was born thirsty.
1.7562 Billion Miles 