#adiction

Sanzu Haruchiyox reader

The world feels too loud when he’s gone. Too bright, too sharp, like everything is scraping against your skin. You try to shut it out, the city noise, the thoughts, the empty space in your chest that used to be full of him, but it never works for long.

smoke and silence. The kind that settles between two people who don’t need to talk to understand. When the high hits, the noise fades and the world slows down. For a few stolen seconds, it almost feels like peace. He smiles then, that half-crazed, beautiful grin, and you let yourself believe it means something.

But it never does. Sanzu is always somewhere else. Even when his hands are on you, his mind is chasing something you can’t give him. You know it, but you let him stay anyway. Because when he’s there, it’s the only time you feel alive.

You sit with him, backs against the cracked wall, the city bleeding neon light through the blinds. His laugh rattles in your chest, his warmth settles in your veins, and for a moment you forget how much it hurts to love him.

He shows up again one night with that same grin on his face, the one that used to make you feel safe. You ask where he’s been. He shrugs. You ask if he missed you. He laughs. You ask if any of this means something. He kisses you like that’s enough of an answer.

You wish you could hate him. You wish it was that simple. But you’re addicted, not to the drugs, not even to the high, but to him. To the chaos he brings, the way he tears everything apart and somehow makes you crave him more for it.

He talks too much, too fast. Wild stories that never make sense. Plans that will never happen. Dreams that dissolve by morning. You nod anyway because it doesn’t matter. This, whatever this is, is the only thing keeping either of you alive.

The nights blur together, all static and smoke. Sometimes he disappears for days. Sometimes he knocks on your door at three in the morning, trembling, eyes wide and glassy, asking if you still have anything left. You tell yourself you’ll say no this time, but you never do.

Your hands always shake when you hand it to him, and he always smiles like he knows exactly what that means. “You’re the only one who gets me,” he says, and you hate how much you want that to be true.

You tell yourself you can handle it. That one day you’ll stop. That you’ll get clean, move on, forget the way his voice sounds when he says your name. But when he’s gone, the silence is unbearable. You shake, you ache, and you realize it’s not just the drugs you’re missing. It’s him.

Because when he’s here, you can breathe. And when he’s gone, you can’t.

You keep pretending it’s love, even when you know better. It’s not love. It’s a sickness. A craving that eats at you from the inside out. You were his fix, and he was yours.

Every time he leaves, you swear it’s the last. Every time he comes back, you open the door.

He never explains, never apologizes. He just hands you the bag, light flickering in his eyes, and says something soft, something almost kind, before it all goes quiet again.

You never know if he comes back for the drugs or for you. But it doesn’t matter. Because when you’re both floating, high enough to forget how much it hurts, you can almost believe he loves you back.

And that’s always enough to let him stay.