I sit at the bar and stare at nothing in particular.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
“One whisky,” I hear myself say.
The glass arrives quickly.
I stare at it for a moment, knowing exactly what Alex would say if he were here.
One drink.
With him.
Not alone.
I pick up the glass anyway.
The burn spreads through my chest, loosening something tight inside me. Not enough. Not yet.
“Another,” I say before I can stop myself.
The second goes down easier.
My thoughts slow. The panic recedes slightly, retreating to the edges of my awareness where it can’t control me completely.
This is manageable.
This is necessary.
This is temporary.
By the time Alex walks in, I’m sitting straighter, breathing easier, the world no longer pressing in on me quite so aggressively.
He spots me immediately and makes his way over, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“There he is,” he says. “Ready?”
I nod, hoping the movement looks more natural than it feels.
“Yeah.”
He studies me for a moment.
Too closely.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
It’s technically true.
He signals the bartender.
“Two pints.”
I don’t stop him.
The beer arrives, and I force myself to drink it slowly, matching his pace, trying to appear normal.