Page 130 of Glass Jawed
He’s standing with his head bowed, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs moving fast like he’s either texting someone important or spiraling through five Reddit rabbit holes at once.
“What did my dad say?” I ask, skipping hello entirely.
He jumps—jumps—like I’ve shot a taser at him. Not just startled. It’s more than that. His whole body flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
He turns to face me, and for a second, I swear he looks... scared?
His breathing is all wrong. Short, shallow. His hands tremble slightly as he lowers the phone.
“Sorry,” he says, voice a little too quick. “You just—uh—you startled me.”
I frown. “You okay?”
He’s sweating. Sure, it’s India, but the heat tonight is actually mild—barely 28°C with a breeze. And he’s not even wearing layers.
He laughs, but it’s forced. “Yeah. Just the alcohol withdrawal thing. I’m kind of...jumpythese days.”
My stomach tightens. “Withdrawal?”
He nods once, then looks at me like he already knows what I’m thinking. “Yeah. I know I said I quit drinking, but I guess I didn’t explain how much I was drinking before that.”
He looks away for a beat, then back at me with a soft, rueful smile. “Turns out I’m what they call a high-functioning alcoholic. I was drinking every day. For over a year. Sixteen months, actually.”
Sixteen months?
My brain stalls. That’s... that goes back to when Tim cheated. When he unraveled.
And suddenly I realize he’s not just confessing this casually—he’s trembling. Still.
He must see it on my face because he rushes to clarify. “I wasn’t drunk all the time, Aarohi. I didn’t show it. I was functional—meetings, deadlines, work, everything. But I was drinking. Consistently. Quietly.”
I take a step back without meaning to. Not out of fear—just...processing. Recalculating every memory. Every night we spent together.
Had he been drinking before showing up at my door? At my bed? Athisbed?
His expression crumples a little. “I never lied to you because I was drunk. I swear. I won’t use alcohol as an excuse. But I wasnumbingmyself. And I didn’t even think I was addicted. Not until I stopped. Not until the symptoms started.”
I’m blinking too fast, my eyes suddenly glassy.
“What—what kind of symptoms?” I ask, my voice quieter now. My earlier irritation is gone, buried under the weight of this new truth.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I mean, the jumpiness, obviously. Sometimes it’s high heart rate—you know, tachycardia. Some fever. Shakiness. The usual. It’s getting better, though.”
The usual?
I want to say something comforting. Or furious. Orhelpful. But all I feel is this hot, heavy ache in my chest.
Because maybe it started with one heartbreak. With betrayal.
But it stopped after another one—afterme.
He got sober afterme.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Because he’s right here, still slightly shaking, and somehow still trying to be better. And despite every reason not to, my eyes blur with tears.
Lucian sees them—and he actually gasps.
