Darkness gradually ebbed away, a distorted dreamscape blurring into focus in the form of a peeling linoleum floor. Scuffed black knee-high boots sat firmly planted in the center of a false grey tile, the toes occasionally tracing the neat square outline surrounding them. Taut laces wound an intricate design up the length of the tired, old shoes and gave way to ripped jeans fraying at the seams. Puddling around my waist, a loose, baggy shirt draped down my body and concealed the imperfections I loathed.

Encircled by strangers, I was at a complete loss for words. I guess I was never really the vocal or outgoing type, no matter how much my heart yearned for attention. You see, settings like these, where I was called to speak rather than dance, always set a fire beneath me—and not the favorable kind. Dribbling down my spine, nervous sweat was soaking sluggishly through the back of my shirt, craftily hidden under the denim jacket slung across my shoulders.

Somber voices told of many tales in the distance—some of their small wins and others of heavy losses. Among them, there was a heavy preference for the latter, usually demonstrated by their hollow, sunken eyes and listless expressions. If it weren’t for the fly buzzing sporadically in my ear or the sheer uncomfortableness of the fold-out chair I casually propped myself up in, I probably would’ve fallen asleep to the droning speeches. Rarely any truly captivated me.

Shutting the door with a startlingly loud metallic clang behind him, I watched in dismay as a new, yet familiar, teen plopped down in the seat beside me. His eyes whispered a sincere apology when he stole a glance in my direction, seeming to understand I wasn’t a fan of random people getting so close to me.

As if to make me feel better, he murmured softly, “hi, I’m Derrick Fritz.” Obviously he’s never been to one of these meetings before. I quickly shook my head at him, trying to shut him up before he drew too much of the wrong kind of attention, but I was already too late.

“Care to share?” a haggard old man asked from across our circle, greeting me with his wise, gentle gaze. Darn you, Howard. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I sat up straighter, twiddling my thumbs in my lap anxiously. I always hated this part.

“I’m Tara, and I’m a drug addict,” I confessed quietly, waiting for the obligatory, “hi, Tara,” to pass. Here in NA, Narcotics Anonymous, I was welcomed warmly in every meeting despite the tragic circumstances that had brought me here. Still, my shares were consistently concise and cryptic, never quite showing the full picture that was—and still is—my train wreck of an existence.

To put it simply, sometimes broken bones lead to broken lives.

Time lurched forward as I shared my pre-rehearsed speech, the walls melting and dripping into the dark abyss steadily forming beneath me like a fresh painting exposed to the rain. All around me, faces evaporated into smoky mist, chairs folding up and flying away unceremoniously—all but one, anyways.

Derrick listened on intently, his gaze wandering through my nappy hair to my high cheekbones, over to my thin, slightly chapped lips, and down to the foot that tapped restlessly against where the floor used to be. Why he took an interest at all is beyond me, but he was the only one to ever address me after the meetings.

“You look like you could use some cheering up after that. How about we take a cab and get some donuts? Maybe some pie? I’m buying,” he suggested, the invitation in his cheeky smile stirring up a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach. Protective instincts tugged at my sleeve, reminding me not to trust strangers without a valid reason.

But the possibility for donuts won out.

That was how I met Derrick, the boy who didn’t care about my past trauma or the fact that I was drowning in rent debt because my roommate up and bailed on me the first week. It felt like he understood me, and I thought I understood him, too. Together, we got clean outside of the confines of those four cracked and faded walls, never to attend NA again.

Alexis came into the picture not long after that, and just the idea of her brought me reeling into yet another fantasized room—this one filled with the intense aroma of ground coffee beans and future disappointment.