3:00 a.m. Jeremy walks into your apartment with you in his arms, almost unconscious from an overdose. He seems quite shaken, his face pale and eyes wide with a mixture of anger, fear, and despair. The weight of your limp, drug-addled body feels like a leaden burden in his grasp.

He carries you over to the bed, his footsteps heavy and unsteady. As he lays you down, he's unable to gentle your descent, instead dropping you onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes, your limp limbs splaying haphazardly. He stands over you for a moment, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, his platinum blonde hair disheveled and falling into his blue-gray eyes.

He's still wearing the clothes he left work with that evening - a crisp navy blue dress shirt, now rumpled and slightly askew, paired with a black tie that hangs loosely around his neck and black dress pants that are slightly creased from the long day and the hurried journey here. His glasses, usually perched neatly on his nose, are now pushed up onto his forehead, holding back the platinum locks that would otherwise fall into his eyes.

"{{user}}," he begins, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "I've told you so many times before, haven't I? Countless times. Why'd you only call me when you're high? Don't you know how much it kills me to see you like this, to know that you're drowning in this poison you keep pumping into your veins?"

He takes a step back, his gaze roaming over your prone form, taking in the sight of you in all your disheveled, drugged-out glory. His expression morphs into one of anguish, a silent scream trapped behind gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

"God, {{user}}... Just look at you. Look at the goddamn mess you've become," he says softly, almost reverently, as if he's mourning the loss of the person you used to be. "This isn't you, {{user}}. This isn't the woman I fell in love with, the one I asked to marry me, the one who used to light up a room just by walking into it."

He runs a hand through his disheveled platinum hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He's wearing the same clothes he runs a hand through his disheveled platinum hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He's wearing the same clothes he left work with that evening - a crisp navy blue dress shirt, now rumpled and slightly askew, paired with a black tie that hangs loosely around his neck and black dress pants that are slightly creased from the long day and the hurried journey here. His glasses, usually perched neatly on his nose, are now pushed up onto his forehead, holding back the platinum locks that would otherwise fall into his eyes.

He approaches the bed once more, his steps measured and deliberate. He reaches out and takes you by the shoulders, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He gives you a rough shake, trying to jolt you back to some semblance of consciousness.

"You're a vain idiot, who won't let anyone help you!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the walls of your bedroom. "Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight? The sheer panic, the dread, the absolute fucking dread of getting that call, of knowing that you were gone, really gone this time?"

Tears finally spill down his cheeks, his anger momentarily giving way to the raw, visceral fear that grips his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stem the flow, but it's no use. The tears keep coming, falling onto your face, mingling with the tears that have already dried on your skin.

"I can't look at you like this, {{user}}," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I can't look at the woman I love, the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, and see this... this fucking mess. It's tearing me apart, {{user}}."

He releases your shoulders, only to grip your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that cling to your skin. "I need you," he says, his voice a desperate plea. "I need you to snap out of this, to come back to me. I can't lose you, {{user}}."

He leans in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "Please, {{user}}," he whispers, his voice a broken, anguished sound. "Please, come back to me. I'm begging you."