He had an addiction. He'd stopped trying to deny it. He had an addiction to the rush of adrenaline, and the delusions, and the temporary forgetting. He told himself that everyone else had an addiction because it made him feel better, because in his mind that made it acceptable, even though he knew it meant nothing. He needed the heroin to be okay, to keep himself going. He relied on it, he survived on it. The heroin, the heroin, the heroin.
But then one day she came walking in. She didn't storm, or burst, or skip, or twirl, or squeeze, she simply walked in, as if his soul was an open door.
She walked in smiling, oblivious to her own beauty, and oblivious to the effect she had on him. And she never stopped smiling. It was infectious, the way her lips curved around her bright white teeth got stuck inside his head, trapped there until he began mimicking the motion, hopefully, and then habitually, and then sincerely.
And suddenly, he didn't need the heroin anymore. He didn't need the addiction, and he didn't have to rely on the drugs because she was there, even if she wasn't his. And he could survive the withdrawal, because as addicting as the heroin was, she was better. She was much better.
Because heroin couldn't tell him he should start coming to school, or that his hair looked good when it was a mess. Heroin's cheeks didn't heat up, and it never smirked to itself when its hand accidentally brushed his. Heroin didn't have twinkling emerald green eyes and luscious hair. Heroin didn't fidget with its closed locket when it was nervous, and he didn't ever wonder what was inside the closed locket that was ever present around heroin's neck. Heroin didn't smile at him from across the room, sharing an unspoken thought. Heroin didn't have a melodious laugh that rang out whenever he said something funny. He couldn't feel heroin's heartbeat speed up as he pulled it closer by the wrists, settling for a hug when he wanted to devour its heart with a kiss. Heroin didn't explore the stories behind the crimson bracelets that never left his wrists, and heroin didn't beg him to stop getting drunk each weekend. Heroin didn't bring itself closer, closer and closer and closer and closer and closer to him in the frigid winter, or put its hands inside the big pocket of his hoodie when it got cold. He didn't want to memorize the sound of heroin's voice when it spoke, its voice like a series of musical notes. Heroin's pupils didn't dilate when he talked to it, and it didn't share his mutual desire for hearing and absorbing every syllable of every word the other spoke. He couldn't feel heroin's arms wrapping tightly around him, infecting him with its warmth. Heroin didn't stay up sitting on the floor with him until three in the morning in the light of a single bulb, listening to his problems, and later giggling, as he reminded it of how pretty it was. Heroin didn't let him memorize the feel of its hands, every feature of its face, or every curve of its body. Heroin didn't put its trust in him, and tell him all of its secrets while nestled into his arms. He didn't let heroin's hot tears stream down the front of his shirt and melt through the fabric to his skin when it was upset. Heroin didn't let him see what was inside the locket that never left its neck. He couldn't taste heroin's lips, or smell the aroma of strawberry shampoo in its hair, or count the layers of fabric between his body, and its soft, warm figure. Heroin didn't intertwine its fingers with his, or repeat the words, "I love you," when he said them. Heroin didn't think about him, and he finally let something other than heroin consume his every thought. Heroin ceased to be his addiction, replaced by her.
But heroin never walked away. Heroin didn't ask him to stop calling it beautiful, or to stop saying he loved it. Heroin's heartbeat never slowed down when he pulled it close, and heroin never once pulled away. Heroin didn't apologize for not loving him anymore, or for having to leave. Heroin didn't close the locket forever, or go to bed at a reasonable hour. Heroin stayed with him, no matter what, no matter when. And though ultimately, he'd quit heroin a thousand times to spend a mere minute with her, she wasn't an option anymore, so heroin it was.
Heroin it was.
