Fourteen. Just a kid. But the world felt too loud, too bright, too much. Someone offered a can, cold and fizzing, and suddenly, everything quieted. It started in basements, smoke curling around whispered secrets. That first rush, a dizzying escape. I learned to chug, to hide the smell, to laugh a little too loud. The hangovers, a small price to pay for the calm that came before. School felt like a performance. My eyes, always darting, searching for the next chance to slip away. The lies came easy, slipping off my tongue like water. My parents, they saw something, I think, but I was a ghost in my own house. I’d stare at myself in the mirror, trying to find the kid I used to be. That happy, carefree fourteen-year-old but all I saw were tired eyes, a shaky hand reaching for another drink to make the world go silent again.