(TW: EMETOPHOBIA + ANOREXIA(?) + GENERALLY BAD COPING MECHANISMS + DRUG ABUSE + PASSIVE SUICIDAL THOUGHTS)
(btw i do not condone ANY of this. just feels like i have to say that. arctics coping mechanisms are NOT OKAY IN ANY WAY and never will be)

Liquid dribbling onto a cold alley floor is all that echoes through the silent Crossroads, followed by quiet sobs between coughs.

She thought she'd been over this by now- over the nauseating feeling in her heart, over never being able to stomach anything. But of course not. No matter how many Phights she got beat up in, no matter how many drugs she tries, she always comes back to her true feelings. Faced with a tyrant he never knew how to face other than fleeing like a coward, with his tail tucked between his legs. It was always the same.

Always. The. Same.

Her own vomit stared back at her, tauntingly, barely any substance in its existence from the lack of any food in her system. She knew it was never worth it to waste her limited Bux on food, always losing it later that night anyway. He knew it wasn't healthy- he knew everything he did wasn't healthy, but he felt trapped. Trapped within his consequences, trapped within his regrets, trapped within the grave he dug for himself.

She turned, blindly grabbing a pill bottle off of a box as she tore the lid off. He dumped the contents into his mouth carelessly- he couldn't care if it was over the safe amount, maybe he'd finally collapse for the last time- before tossing the empty bottle to the ground.

He slouched back against the alley wall, flopping his side against the box next to him.

She closed her eyes.

Tomorrow's another day.

(i wrote this on my phone while im in the car so im sorry if its shit /gen)