Damien woke up with a pounding headache, his tongue heavy with the bitter taste of whiskey. The sun crept through the blinds of his messy living room, lighting up the bottles scattered on the table, the brushes dropped carelessly on the floor and the canvases smeared with chaos from the night before. His throat was dry and when he sat up, the room tilted for a second, reminding him of how much he had drowned himself just hours earlier.
He pressed his palm to his temple, muttering, “Christ…” before dragging himself upright. His shirt still smelled of paint and liquor. Everything around him looked like a storm had passed through and maybe one had. Not outside but inside him.
His eyes drifted toward the studio corner, where Lena usually sat, where her laughter sometimes softened the tension
