“You ever think about that night?”

Marcus’s voice cut through the silence like glass. His breath hung in the air, cold and still, though they were inside.

Deji didn’t look up. He sat on the floor, back against the wall, bottle gripped like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the earth.

“Which night?” he asked, voice raspy, eyes bloodshot.

“You know the one. February. Cold. You were wearing that denim jacket like it could save you.”

Deji let out a dry laugh, the kind that held no joy. “That jacket’s long gone. Like everything else.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “You passed out in the alley behind the pub. I had to carry you halfway across town.”

“And you stayed.” Deji whispered. “You always stayed.”

There was a pause. One that hurt.

Deji rubbed his eyes, hands trembling. He hadn’t eaten in two days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to bed sober, or the last time he’d seen his mother without disappointment in her eyes.

“You remember what you used to say?” Marcus asked gently.

“No.”

“You’d wake up hungover and say, ‘At least I woke up.’ Like it was a badge of honour.”

Deji closed his eyes. He remembered. He also remembered vomiting in the sink, punching a hole in the wall during Christmas, missing his sister’s wedding because he was “just resting” after a binge.

He took a sip from the bottle. Cheap whiskey. He hated the taste now, but hated the silence more.

“You were trying to quit,” Marcus said. “You almost did.”

“I almost did a lot of things,” Deji muttered.

Marcus leaned back, his voice quieter. “You still can. This isn’t the end.”

Deji scoffed, tears burning behind his lids. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

“It’s the day you decide,” Marcus said. “Every day, it’s either your bed or a coffin. That’s the deal, and there’s no third option.”

Silence again.

Deji stood slowly, stumbling a bit, pacing the room like a caged dog. The walls felt tighter every day. The apartment reeked of sweat, liquor, and loneliness.

He looked at Marcus, really looked.

“You’re not even real, are you?” Deji asked.

Marcus tilted his head.

Deji took a shaky breath. “You died… that night in February. You carried me home, then you went back out to get my wallet from the street.” His voice cracked. “You got hit by a damn drunk driver.”

He dropped the bottle. It shattered.“I was too wasted to remember until the next day. Your mum called me crying.”

Marcus didn’t answer. He just looked at Deji with that same calm he always had.

“So why are you here?” Deji choked.

“To remind you that you’re still alive.” Marcus’s voice was fading now, like a signal losing strength. “But that won’t last forever.”

And just like that, he was gone.

No couch imprint. No warmth. Just Deji—alone again.

He sank to his knees, sobbing into his hands.

Across the room, a photo on the shelf: Marcus and Deji, arm in arm, two kids who thought a bottle could drown pain without teaching them how to swim.

Deji stared at it for a long time.

Then, for the first time in weeks, he reached not for the bottle,but for his phone.

And dialed.“Hi… Yeah. I need help. Please.”