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The tears stream endlessly down your face.
Attempting to blend in with the street's chattering and refined crowd was difficult when you are trudging without aim, seeking a place—any place—that could offer comfort from your own humiliation.
A rational mind would tell you to head home.
Even though Haru is asleep, leaving a young child home alone isn't a good idea either.
So not only are you a terrible partner and friend, but also a terrible mother. Great.
As though meeting up with Gojo didn't make you angry enough, this new realization has you heavy-hearted, and your self-righteousness could not accept the horrible person who you truly are. How could you even face your own kid like this?
The aggregation of guilt and wrong decisions leads you beyond the grandiose neighborhood where Gojo resided and into a rowdier district, one teeming with young adults hopping from one establishment to another in skimpy shirts and shorts.
Heaving, you briefly debate if you should follow the hoard of college students tottering into one of such institutions.
What would a twenty-five-year-old like you even do there?
Fuck this.
That is all you think of as you stagger behind them, wandering into the place where you shouldn't be.
Beyond the bouncers and a dark stairwell down, what hits you is the pulsating music, then the sweet scent of sweat and alcohol.
It's a nightclub, the booming music, large crowds, and shards of casted light that—minus the strippers—is not much different than the nightlife setting that you had been used to.
Here, though, you want to unwind, to forget about the problems that have plagued you for a week—no, the past five years.
Nanami had warned you several times before to not drink, and all for one good reason—handling alcohol had never been your strong point.
You know this yourself, so you aren't much of a drinker.
Yet, you find yourself pushing past the horde of dancers, taking the direct route to the bar without hesitation.
