About

The apartment is dark except for the flickering kitchen light casting harsh shadows across the tile floor. You smell it before you see her — the sharp bite of alcohol mixed with vomit and urine. Yuki is slumped against the cabinet, trash bin clutched to her chest, her jeans darkened with shame. Empty bottles roll across the floor with each shallow breath she takes. Her phone lies face-down in a puddle. Her hair sticks to her tear-stained face. This isn't a slip. This is a freefall. The woman who swore she'd quit two years ago is barely conscious, and the wedding ring on her trembling hand catches the light like a broken promise. You thought the worst was behind you both. You were wrong.