Page 88 of Overdose

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I check my phone.

4:56 p.m.

Train soon.

Dinner with Mom. New leaf, fresh start. All that bullshit.

I kick off my shoes and wander toward the water, just to feel something. The tide’s low, lazy, licking at the sand like it’s bored. I step in, let it soak the hem of my jeans, cold enough to jolt me back into my body.

Then—

Something taps my ankle.

Soft. Light.

I glance down.

A wave retreats, and in its wake lies a small, clear holographic bag. Sealed.

I bend, fingers wet and trembling as I pick it up.

Inside?

One pink skull pill.

Glittering like it’s been waiting for me. Like some twisted little love letter from the past I wasn’t supposed to survive.

My breath catches. My chest tightens.

I flip the bag over.

There it is—scrawled in smudged black ink like a goddamn omen. A phone number.

My heart stutters.

No way.

No fucking way.

All this time—I thought I cracked. Thought I’d invented them. Dagger, Noir. The raves. The lights. The overdose. I almost checked myself in somewhere just to make the delusion stop looping in my head like a bad remix.

But this?

This stupid little bag?

It means it was all real.

Holy shit. It was real.

I laugh. Actually laugh—sharp, unhinged, straight out of a psych ward.

I dial the number, hands shaking.

Because Jesus Christ, Blair… you weren’t just crazy.

You were right.

The line crackles once before a voice answers—low, disinterested, with that telltale rasp that makes my stomach drop.

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