Saturday sunlight was painfully bright.  

Evan sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, the echo of last night replaying in his mind.  

Zack’s laughter from the phone still rang in his ears:  

*“You puked, then went back to drinking! And that dance—man, you stole the show!”*  

He couldn’t picture it, didn’t want to—but the thought alone made his skin burn.  

“How could I… do something like that?”  

Shame crawled through him, heavy and suffocating.  

He spent the entire morning sitting there, too disgusted with himself to move.  

By noon, he finally went out, keeping his cap low as he stepped into the pharmacy down the street.  

“Do you… have something you can take before drinking? You know, to help?”  

The clerk didn’t even blink—just nodded, reached for a box, and handed it over.  

“Take these before you drink. It might help a bit. But really, you should cut back.”  

Evan gave a weak smile. “Yeah… thanks.”  

He slid a few bills across the counter. His wallet was even thinner now.  

Still, he pocketed the pills.  

Because he knew—he’d have to go again tonight.  

In this job, saying *no* wasn’t an option.  

Back in his apartment, he collapsed onto the bed.  

Then the phone buzzed.  

A message from Rachel.  

He opened it—and froze.  

It was a photo.  

Him, in the middle of the dance floor, red-faced and grinning, hands in the air.  

The lights flashing like a club.  

The client beside him, laughing, arm around his shoulder.  

Below it, Rachel’s message:  

**[Hahaha, Evan! You were the star of the night!]**  

Evan’s stomach dropped.  

His throat went dry. His fingers trembled, hovering over the screen.  

He didn’t reply.  

He couldn’t.  

He just set the phone down and exhaled sharply, shame burning through his veins.  

A few minutes later, the screen lit up again.  

A new message.  

From Ivy.  

**[😊 Good morning.]**  

Just an emoji. Calm. Distant.  

Evan stared at it, unsure what to feel.  

She wasn’t teasing like Rachel—just… watching, maybe.  

He couldn’t tell.  

What did that even mean?  

He didn’t reply this time either.  

Just turned the phone face down and stared at the ceiling.  

The afternoon dragged on.  

He paced the room, sat down, stood up again.  

He couldn’t settle.  

One thought kept circling back:  

*I have to go again tonight.*  

The realization pressed against his chest until it hurt.  

He wanted to refuse, but he knew he wouldn’t.  

He couldn’t.  

By dusk, he opened the small box of pills and swallowed two.  

Cold water slid down his throat, but his stomach felt heavier than ever.  

He looked at himself in the mirror—tie half done, eyes dull.  

“Don’t embarrass yourself again,” he muttered.  

“At least stay sober this time.”  

The reflection didn’t answer.  

It just stared back, tired and hollow.  

When night came, the streets outside glowed with neon and noise.  

Evan buttoned his shirt, picked up his briefcase, and took one long breath before stepping out the door.  

He already knew what waited for him—  

another night he wouldn’t remember,  

another smile he’d have to fake.