They never did.

The worst part—the truly cruel part—is that Liam was still in there, somewhere. On rare, terrible mornings, when the high was wearing off and the withdrawal hadn’t yet begun, he would catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror. And for a moment, he would remember the boy with the volcano, the boy who loved clouds. He would feel a grief so enormous that it had no shape, no words. And then the grief itself would become another reason to use again. See? the addiction would whisper. This is why you need me. I make that feeling go away.

And that was the trap. Liam had not started using to get high. He started using to get low—to turn down the volume on a brain that never stopped thinking, to quiet a heart that felt things too deeply. The drugs did not steal his soul in a single dramatic night. They borrowed it, a little at a time, promising always to give it back.