The bad days are coming. I want to go back to drinking. It always starts with thinking, about all the things someone once said to me. Hours of thought leave my nights sleepless, nights that steal my soul, piece by piece. I fight for every single one, to save it, to set it free, to protect what is left. But in the end, I always lose it all. The loss shows itself in a dead stare, short breaks from the world. It doesn’t feel like anything. No pain, no sadness, just emptiness. This stare is imperceptible, and nobody sees it as a warning sign. It acts like nothing, but it’s the beginning. The beginning of something bigger. Then you lose your appetite. You are simply not hungry anymore. Food disgusts you. Then the connection to people disappears. You stop talking. Your phone keeps waiting, waiting for your answers. But you avoid conversations, even the small ones, because you can’t see their meaning. It's harder and harder to pretend that everything is fine. And when you’re too tired of pretending, you isolate yourself. You hide from daylight, to become a prisoner. A prisoner in your own house. Arrested for nothing but still convinced that you deserve it.