One drink, Another one, And another one, And another one, And then five more. Watching you pour another didn't bother me. It didn't. But when you spoke to me like that, when the words rolled off your tongue like they meant nothing, I felt every single one. You didn't even realize how much they hurt, how they burned, like a piece of hot wood pressed against my skin. Your words made me tremble, not because they were loud, but because they came from you. And somehow, that hurt the most. Because you're my dad. You're supposed to feel like home, not like something I need to recover from. Even now, days later, your words still echo in the quiet parts of me. I wish one drink had just been one drink.