USER SERIES 1 Micah Rex: He's handsome, dangerous, reckless. An addict. When he walks into a room, people notice. People are scared of him, people don't look him in the eye. AJ Ferro: She's cute, nice respectful. A helper. When she walks in a room, people usually get flowers. People love her, people want to be her friend. Despite her cheery nature and soft words AJ has never had it easy when it came to addiction -or depression. Without his addiction, sadness and anger Micah doesn't know who he is -and he hates not knowing things. And, of all places, they meet at a rehab center. He looked at her and saw a peppy girl with no future. She looked at him and saw a troubled boy with a bad past. Micah wants to die, AJ wants him to live. It's only a matter of time before one of them breaks through or breaks the other. - I was 12 the first time I took a hit off a joint at a party, smoked a blunt by myself and bought a bong. I was 13 when I started drinking alcohol for fun. 14 the first time I took ecstasy at a college party I snuck into, the same age I lost my virginity. This was the first time I went to a mental institution because it's also the year I first tried to kill myself. 15 the first time I smoked meth, took a bump of cocaine, shot myself up with heroine. This was the first time I got sent to rehab, it didn't work and I came out worse. I was 16 when I tried to commit three times in the same year, the last time I got my heart to stop for 30 seconds. That year was also the first time I snorted Hydrocodone, getting me started in opiates, I experimented with Xanax and liked it. And I was a month from 17 when I got sober. - "Fuck you." I snap. "You already have." Micah bites out. "And I'm pretty fucking sure you liked it too, if your orgasms were anything to go by." - "I want-" Micah stopped, running his fingers through his hair. "Never mind what I want. What do you want?" His voice is quieter now, more gentle. "You."

"You're atheist," I remind him. "You don't believe in god." "I believe in you," He murmurs, letting the cigarette hang from his lips. "I believe in whatever you believe." He says, letting the confession roll off his tongue as if it were that simple. As if god, the devil, heaven, hell-as if none of it really had meaning to him. "That's not how it works," I mutter as we walk down a few more alleyways-the city of Manhattan coated in a light blanket of snow. Henry Vitiello had never had anything to pray for, that is, until he met me-the only thing that had ever opened his mind up to the possibility of religion "Isn't it?" He argues, taking the cigarette by his middle and pointer finger before blowing the smoke out. "I'II dip my hands in holy water if it means I could touch you." "You'd probably burn." 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, the reaper. He's a prick. An asshole. A pretentious son of a bitch. He's not perfect. He's not even decent. But he's hers. She could be a bottle labeled poison but he was an alcoholic, and he had drunk her empty. Now he was hungover. 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒, the healer. She's known to be the perfect good girl, with perfect grades and a perfect life with a perfect family. They didn't know that behind the gated doors of their billion dollar estate, she was strapped down to a chair every night and picked apart just to be put back together in time for supper. 𓆩♡𓆪 star-crossed; adjective (of a person or a plan) thwarted by bad luck. 'star-crossed lovers' and that, they were. So they fucked under those very stars that tried so desperately to break them apart. 𓆩♡𓆪 ‼️DISCLAIMER ‼️ BOOK REFERENCES TO MARA DYER, SHATTER ME, MIND FUCK, ETC ARE ALL INTENTIONAL SO DONT BE RUDE. AS FOR TRIGGER WARN