Story left off I can cry about it. I can be angry about it. But I cannot let his fall convince me that I should fall too. Maybe this is one of the hardest lessons I’m supposed to learn here: sometimes the people you start the journey with aren’t the people who finish it with you. Sometimes you have to keep walking even when the person you thought would be beside you disappears from the road. And that hurts because I didn’t want to walk this part alone. But maybe I need to learn that I can. I came here because I wanted my life back. I wanted to become somebody I could respect again. I wanted to stop hurting the people I love. I wanted to be able to provide, build a future, make money, have my own place, and wake up without constantly feeling like my past was controlling my future. That mission hasn’t changed just because my friend relapsed. If anything, I need to take it more seriously now. I don’t know exactly what the next four months are going to look like. I don’t have every answer. I don’t have the perfect plan. But I know I have to start building one. I have to use this time instead of letting this time use me. I need to figure out work. I need to figure out money. I need to figure out where I’m going to live, what kind of support I’m going to have, and what I’m going to do the moment I walk out of here. Because I don’t want to leave this place with nothing but four months of sobriety. I want to leave with a foundation. I want to be able to look back at this moment—the moment my friend relapsed, the moment somebody’s trust was broken, the moment I felt unheard, the moment I felt lost—and say, “That was the moment I could’ve given up, but I didn’t.” His story doesn’t have to become mine. His relapse doesn’t erase everything we talked about. It doesn’t erase every time we encouraged each other. It doesn’t erase the friendship. But I also have to accept that caring about someone doesn’t mean I can save them from the consequences of their choices. Story continues—-