Another Friday night, another "spontaneous" outing that quickly spiraled into a familiar routine. It started innocently enough, a text from Maria: "Drinks?" Sarah was there in an instant, her energy already bubbling, a premonition of the release to come. The bar lit up brightly with a chandler, high in the ceiling.
The first gin and tonic went down easy, followed by another, then, "one, two three, drink!" a round of tequila shots she insisted on. "Live a little!" Sarah slurred, the words tasting like defiance.
The club was a blur of bodies, flashing lights, and the intoxicating hum of being seen, of being the one everyone wanted to talk to, to dance with, to take another shot with. The random guy from the bar—tall, dark hair, a laugh that was charmingly infectious at 2 AM—was just another symptom of the night, 'feel the love' from another warm body to keep the emptiness at bay until the sun dared to rise.
But now, as the cool Saturday morning air brushed against Sarah's flushed skin, the alcohol's comforting haze was rapidly dissipating as she does the 'walk of shame' home. Her high heels dangled from her hand as she walked. The pavement was cold beneath her bare feet. With each step, the whispers in her mind grew louder, more insistent. The glamour of the night had peeled away, revealing the same old fear, the same aching void she tried so desperately to drown. The laughter, the fleeting connections, the reckless abandon—it all felt hollow now, leaving behind only a bitter residue of regret.
She knew, deep down, that this wasn't living. This was just surviving, one hazy, drunken night at a time, running from a reality she was too afraid to face. As she turned the corner onto main street, the full weight of it descended, cold and undeniable. Her life was a mess. And for the first time in a long time, there was no more alcohol left to numb the feeling.
The side of the bridge was easy to climb on to. Sarah stood there, feeling the breeze drying her tears. She held her eyes shut, not wanting to look down.
