She shrugs at her own history the way others shrug off bad weather — as if none of it matters, as if she doesn’t either. Pills, weed, lines of coke on bathroom sinks — she burned through all the “light stuff” years ago. Now it’s needles, fentanyl patches, crushed oxy on dirty mirrors. Every high takes her further, every comedown leaves her smaller. She pretends she doesn’t care, pretends she can’t feel — but the truth is simpler. She’s chasing something she’s not even sure exists anymore: the chance to feel anything at all.