ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ | 𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙧

25. 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂'𝙎 𝙂𝙊𝙉𝙉𝘼 𝙃𝙐𝙍𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘽𝘼𝘽𝙔

025, 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂'𝙎 𝙂𝙊𝙉𝙉𝘼 𝙃𝙐𝙍𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘽𝘼𝘽𝙔

10k words in this one. enjoy <3

also pls ignore and spelling errors. ill fix them later !!

.⋆𐙚 🍒

THE BIGGEST LIE I EVER TOLD MYSELF WAS THAT I GOT DRUNK FOR FUN.

Not to forget. Not to cope. Not to stitch together the parts of me that keep coming loose. Just fun. Just parties. Just something to loosen me up. That's what I said.

But the truth is—I've always liked the way it burns. Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.

Alcohol doesn't ease into you. It doesn't ask permission or come with a warning. It grabs you by the throat and dares you to flinch. It tastes like fire and forgetting—like swallowing a spark that settles low in your stomach and spreads outward until everything starts to blur.

I don't sip the way other people do. I knock it back like I'm racing something. Like I'm trying to outrun a version of myself I'm too scared to be left alone with.

My father's been drinking himself into the grave since the day I was born.
I grew up watching him unravel—one bottle at a time. And I used to swear I'd never be like him. Never chase stillness in something so cruel. Never rely on poison to quiet the noise.

But maybe that's the whole point—maybe forgetting is a kind of mercy.

There's this split-second after the third shot—right when the burn blooms and the room tilts just a little—where everything goes still. No pressure. No memory. No sharp-edged thoughts scraping at the inside of my skull. Just a soft, golden silence. Just peace, dressed up as recklessness.

That's what I chase. Every time. That fragile blink of weightlessness before the fall.

But I hate what it does to me. I hate the honesty it drags out of me when I'm not ready to bleed. How it strips me bare in front of the people I trust most. I say things I regret. Things I wish weren't true. My mouth always moves faster than my restraint.

And I hate vodka.

I hate the taste of it—like bleach and battery acid. I hate the way it lingers at the back of my throat, sour and bitter, like a prelude to regret. I hate how it makes my skin feel too tight, like I'm wearing myself wrong. I've sworn off vodka more times than I can count.

But tonight, it's all he has.

There was a full bottle sitting on Eren's kitchen counter. Connie grabbed it after Armin finished laying out the plan, cracked it open without asking, and took the first swig.

Now I'm slouched on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, a little too far gone to care that my head's leaning against Jean's arm. The bottle comes back around to me—nearly empty now.

My face is hot. My vision wavers at the edges. I can't tell if the room is spinning or if it's just him—Eren, in the armchair, watching me. Saying nothing. That unreadable look in his eyes again, like he's trying to decide if he should stop me. But he doesn't.

I bring the bottle to my lips. Tip it back. Let the last of it burn its way down.

I hate vodka.

But I hate the noise in my head more.

I don't even realize my eyes are closing until everything goes dark.

.⋆𐙚 🍒