I think I’m going to put you in some kind of treatment program, she says.

I’m somewhere between sleeping and waking, trying to recall what I was dreaming, trying to recall a face or a name, and I always feel like I almost have it, but it never comes. I only took one, I say.

I took four, you took nine. And then I was laughing and touching the walls, the bed, my face, and you were swaying back and forth with a broken cigarette between your chapped lips, looking at me like you didn’t see me. This is like a scene out of a bad ’70s movie, I’d said, and we laughed. And this was rebellion, and this was teenage angst, and this was freedom, and this was love, and this was happiness, and we were flying.

Every chance you get you’re drunk or doing drugs, she says.

Your eyes were closed, black eyelashes fluttering against pale skin, hair matted to your forehead, chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale, in and out, in and out. What are you running away from? If you heard me at all, you didn’t answer.

Sometimes I like not being me, I say.

Disgustingly cliché, a Lifetime movie of the week. And I’m trying to remember your face, and I’m trying to remember your touch, and every time I close my eyes you’re here. You’re touching my face, you’re breathing next to my ear, you’re crying, you’re smiling, and we’re young and we’re happy and we’re just experimenting.

I just wanted to try it, I say.

And every time I open my eyes, I really expect to see you, because it’s so real. But the fluorescent light is harsh and I stumble, liquid movements, sticky suffocation, one foot behind the other.

You stood and fell but didn’t realize it, and I helped you up but you didn’t know who I was. I asked if you were sure you could drive, and your eyes were all over the place, and when you finally looked at me, you were confused, brows furrowed, palms sweaty. I’m fine, and you hugged me good-bye and told me not to worry.

Someone is going to get hurt, she says.