CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3: Lost in the Abyss

The old me wasn’t just back — he took over. But this time, I used myself as a weapon against my pain.

Every night, I drowned myself in alcohol, chasing the fleeting hope that the next drink would erase her from my mind. I smoked to silence the thoughts, desperate for a break from the memories. When that wasn’t enough, I turned to harder substances, trying to speed up the forgetting.

But no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t escape her. Every chance I got, my eyes drifted back to her—on social media, in old messages, in every quiet moment when I thought I was alone.

Other girls started noticing. They saw my weakness, my brokenness, and they pounced, seeing me as easy prey. Some even said they didn’t care if I used them to forget her.

then it happend, my first time, a girl took me to a motel when I was so high I barely thought straight. It was my first. I was lost, not really present.

The second time, I was drinking at home, then went to a party, and woke up stripped at someone else’s place—shattered and confused.

After those nights, the shame hit me like a punch to the gut. I cried for what I’d done, for letting myself fall so far. I felt weak, disgusted, asking myself how I’d let it happen.

All I wanted was to forget her—but I couldn’t.

I talked to many girls, but none of them compared. Deep down, I knew my heart wasn’t anywhere else. I was broken, trying to fix myself, but only her could truly heal me.

I kept drowning.

In girls.

In alcohol.

In smoke.

In substances I never thought I’d touch.

Each night bled into the next like a blur of chaos, and every time I opened my eyes, I wished I hadn’t.

I wanted to change. God knows I did.

But I couldn’t.

I kept hoping she would come back, that she would tell me to stop, that she still cared. Just one message. Just one reason to hold on. But she was gone.

And I was alone.

Two months of hell.

A never-ending cycle of pretending I was okay while dying inside.

I should’ve died from the things I did when she left.

Sometimes, I almost hoped I would.

I was so lost without her, like my world collapsed the moment she disappeared. No direction. No future. No reason to hope.

There were nights I looked up, eyes burning from everything I’d taken, and whispered the same quiet plea over and over:

May she find me.

May she save me.

Because I couldn’t save myself.

Ihated myself.

Not in a dramatic, passing way—no. I truly hated what I’d become.

I was disgusted.

Every look in the mirror was a reminder of the nights I couldn't remember and the pieces of myself I gave away for nothing. I wasn’t a man anymore—I was a ghost, living off guilt and regret.

Karma hit me like a truck.

All the pain I used to cause others, all the emotions I used to play with so carelessly—it all came back, but this time, I was on the receiving end.

I felt everything I had made others feel. The confusion. The abandonment. The ache of not knowing why you’re not enough.

And the worst part?

I knew I deserved it.

That realization cut deeper than any heartbreak ever could.

This wasn’t just about losing her anymore.

This was about losing me.

And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t escape the consequences. No girl, no substance, no drunken night could protect me from the truth.

I wasn’t broken because of her.

I was broken because I’d been breaking others for years—and now, the weight of it all came crashing down.

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