"I started drinking again"
8:04 p.m.

Dear __________,

You sounded so down. You seemed so lost. And for a minute, in your eyes, I thought I caught a glimpse of....was it fear? Desperation? Hopelessness?

Whatever it was, it was awful.

I wanted to comfort you...to tell you everything would be okay...and I tried, I'm not sure if you noticed. But...well...when you said it, when you said what had happened...when you said what you'd done after all this time of supposed strength of will...when you told me that you'd given in to the monsters, well, it made me sad.

That old desire to cry came back.

But I have come to grips with this, I think. Because I have finally figured out that, though we're friends, there's this glass wall between us. You're on your side, and I'm on mine. We might walk side by side, and we might feel very close, but we're always what might as well be miles apart.

The glass is so thick...and yet so deceptive in its ability to fool me into thinking we're connected somehow. I wish we were...I wish I could put my fist through the glass and reach across the distance to you. I wish I could really touch you, so that when I was done you would be forever affected...but I can't.

And it amazes me how it only took four words to cause me this distress.

Four little words showed me the glass that's been there all along.

And I guess it doesn't matter how much I press my nose to it...or fog it up with my breath and write you messages...you don't want to change, you don't want to try, you don't want to help.

You just want to drink.

Love,

_____________

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