• Happy pride month, xisters of the schlog!

Remove Steve as moderator

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Demote Steve?

  • Yes

    Votes: 30 57.7%

  • No

    Votes: 22 42.3%
  • Total voters
    52
thanks CHADgpt
The air between them crackled with tension, each breath drawn painfully thin. Jimbo’s words lingered in the space they once shared, a quiet truth finally spoken. Terry’s gaze dropped to the floor, as if the weight of his own reflection had become unbearable.
“I’ll fix it,” Terry whispered, though the conviction in his voice had long since eroded. He sounded tired—of himself, of the cycle they were trapped in. “I just need time.”
Jimbo closed his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. How many times had he heard those words? How many times had he believed them?
“I don’t think we have any more time, Terry.”

Terry did try—for a while. He poured the liquor down the sink, promised to attend meetings, even went sober for a few days. But sobriety, like love, wasn’t something he could grasp without truly wanting it. The cravings crept back, insidious and relentless, whispering promises that felt easier than reality.
It was during one of these weak moments that he met Liker again. They had exchanged numbers that night at the bar, but he hadn’t acted on it—until now. One message turned into two, and before he knew it, he was at her apartment, the faint hum of temptation buzzing in his veins.
Liker was everything Jimbo wasn’t. Wild, unpredictable, and most importantly, without expectations. She didn’t ask him to change or care about his drinking. She matched him drink for drink, laugh for laugh, until the lines between escape and betrayal blurred into oblivion.

Jimbo sensed it before he knew it. The late nights, the furtive glances at Terry’s phone, the way Terry’s apologies became hollow shells of themselves. One night, while Terry was passed out on the couch, his phone buzzed incessantly. Jimbo hesitated before picking it up. The message was from Liker:
“Miss you already. Last night was wild. When can I see you again?”
Jimbo’s stomach turned. He stared at the screen, the words burning into his mind. He wasn’t shocked, not really. But the confirmation of his worst fears still felt like a knife twisting in his chest.
When Terry woke up the next morning, hungover and groggy, Jimbo was waiting for him. The phone sat between them on the coffee table, the damning message still open.
“Who is she?” Jimbo’s voice was steady, but the cracks beneath it were impossible to miss.
Terry’s eyes widened. He rubbed his face, trying to buy time. “Jimbo, it’s not what you think—”
“Don’t. Just tell me the truth. Do I even deserve that?”
Terry sighed, defeated. “It’s Liker. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was drunk, and—”
“You’re always drunk, Terry.” Jimbo’s voice broke, anger laced with heartbreak. “That’s the problem. I kept forgiving you because I thought you’d change. But now... now you’re not just hurting me. You’re destroying everything.”
Terry reached for him, but Jimbo stepped back, tears brimming in his eyes. “You don’t get to do this anymore. You don’t get to make me feel like I’m not enough.”

Jimbo packed his things that evening. There were no more arguments, no desperate pleas. Terry sat on the couch, head in his hands, while Jimbo quietly folded the remnants of their life into a suitcase. When he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at Terry one last time.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Jimbo whispered. “But it’s not here. And it’s not with her.”
Terry didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Jimbo found an apartment across town, a small but warm space that quickly became his sanctuary. He threw himself into his art, painting the pain and healing that came in waves. He joined a group for those affected by addiction, finding solace in shared stories and quiet support.
Terry, meanwhile, spiraled deeper. Liker left after a few months, unable to handle the reality of his addiction. Alone and broken, Terry hit rock bottom one night after waking up in a hospital bed. The nurse’s eyes were kind but tired as she handed him a pamphlet for a rehabilitation center.
For the first time, Terry didn’t push it away.

Months later, Jimbo received a letter. It was from Terry, written in shaky but sincere handwriting.
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I’m not asking for it. I just wanted to say thank you—for loving me when I couldn’t love myself. I’m getting help now. I hope you’re happy. You deserve to be.”
Jimbo folded the letter, tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t know if he’d ever truly forgive Terry, but he wished him peace. That, in itself, was enough.
And as he picked up his brush, ready to create once more, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go.
 
@terrycrews
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