Hot chocolate on burnt ice.

You know what happens when it's pouring outside and the breeze is all cool and sending shivers down your spine and forming a zillion goosbumps on your skin since you were never good at handling the cold by yourself (you always needed that muffler or that jacket or those arms, at times just the look in this one pair of eyes could give you warmth). I do. You go get a drink with the first guy who agrees to forgetting for an evening as to what lies ahead. And you do know what happens on alcohol now, don't you. You get sloshed out of your mind just to get away from everything that you're always thinking about and never want to. The aftermath of that can vary. I ended up tripping and strutting my way into McDonalds way past midnight, giggling like a fool, clutching to my nothing of a bag for support and helping my drunk friend walk. The waitress gives us a smirk like she knows what it's like. We just giggle some more like a bunch of misplaced teenagers. The hot chocolate she serves us, burns us a little more than it should and wakes us up a lot lesser than it ought to. I pass out on his shoulder on the ride back home and somehow climb the steps to my room. Then do it over and over again, looking for something. I go down to look in the living room, I come up to look in the lobby, I even go outside to look in the balcony. I search my flatmate's room and disturb them. I go mad looking for it in my room. Round and round, in circles and spirals of a black haze. As I finally crash on my bed, a half-burnt cigarette hanging loosely from my fingers, I still haven't found that one thing I was looking for.

I woke up, randomly, abruptly, a clutter of thoughts in my head. I recall the last thought and feeling in my head was of desperation, trying to find something.

It was you.

It's always been you.