Quit

Chapter 61

{ Ariana's POV }

"Baby, are you okay?" I asked as Y/n rushed into the bathroom.

"Y- yeah, I'm fi-" her words were cut short as she began to vomit.

I flung the door open and hurried to her side, supporting her hair and forehead as she threw up.

You might think it's sickness, but it's not. She was going through withdrawal since she quit drugs for good, and it's a terrifying journey. I hadn't grasped the severity until now.

After Y/n washed her face and brushed her teeth, she slumped to the bathroom floor. "I- I'm sorry," she whispered.

I shook my head, crouched beside her, and softly said, "Let's get you to bed, baby."

She managed to get up and we walked to her bed. I laid down on my side and she laid down on hers, spreading out like a starfish, one arm and leg wrapped around me.

I could hear her before I saw her. The sharp, shallow breaths, the soft groans that escaped her lips with every exhale. I don't know how much longer she can take this. I don't know how much longer I can watch her like this.

The room was dark, only the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across her face. Y/n was covered in a thin sheet, drenched in sweat. Her hands clenched my t-shirt, knuckles white, her body trembling under the weight of withdrawal.

I felt useless. My hand hovered over her forehead before gently brushing her hair away. She flinched at the touch, eyes squeezed shut as if she was trying to escape the world, escape the pain.

"Baby," I whispered, my voice cracking more than I wanted it to. "I'm here, okay? I'm right here."

Her breathing was quick, her chest rising and falling too fast, as though she was running a marathon she didn't sign up for. I took her hand, fingers shaking in mine. She gripped my hand back, tighter than before—so tight it almost hurt, but I didn't care. If she needed to hold on that hard, I'd let her.

"I c-can't..." she murmured, barely audible. "I can't."

"You can," I said, even though it felt like a lie right now. "You've made it this far. You're stronger than this. You're stronger than it."

Her eyes finally opened, glassy and unfocused. She looked at me but didn't really see me. I hate that look. It was like she was somewhere else, lost somewhere far away. I wanted to pull her out, but all I could do was lay here, watch her fight it, and make sure she knows she's not alone.

The worst part? She did this for me. For us. She stopped because I begged her to. And now all I could do was watch her suffer.

Her body shuddered, a violent tremor ripping through her as she curled tighter, pulling her knees into her chest. I couldn't stop the tears in my eyes from spilling over. I had never seen her so fragile, so broken.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, like it was her fault. Like any of this was her fault.

I shook my head, wiping my tears quickly so she didn't see them. "No. Don't. Don't be sorry."

She was shaking so badly now, and I didn't know what else to do. I pulled her into my lap, her head resting against my chest, and held her as tight as I could without hurting her. Her breathing was rough, her body tensing against mine, and I held on, even though her weight was lowkey crushing me, hoping my heartbeat could somehow calm hers.

"It's okay," I said again, rocking her gently. "You're going to get through this."

Her breath hitched, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't want to feel like this anymore."