Julian
Miserable didn't begin to describe the way I felt. Hunched over the bar, I reached for my shot glass and gulped down the strong liquid in one go. The alcohol burned its way down my throat, making me wince.
Then I signaled the bartender for another. I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting in the same spot, drowning my sorrows. I lost track of time after the first few shots.
I was set on autopilot, repeating the same process for days. Work, go to the bar and sit for hours to stare at my phone while I drank. Sometimes, I picked up the phone, unlocked it, found Ruby's number, and my finger lingered over her name for minutes at a time. But I never actually made the call because I was afraid she'd tell me what I dreaded hearing: that she never wanted to hear from me again.
I was as
