heartstopper + solitare oneshots !!!

i'll never drink again. 🥐

tw for underage drinking, alcohol abuse, addiction, mention of psych wards, and panic attacks

i sit in my room with a bottle of vodka and i'm questioning my life choices. i believe i am drunk because everything is hazy and the only two things on my mind are self hatred and my boyfriend. i haven't talked to charlie since last week and i've instead got a new bottle of vodka doordashed. every. single. day.

for this week and the next two weeks, mum and dad and oliver are not home, how they trusted me and charlie to be home alone for three weeks? i have no idea. charlie has tried talking to me and it hasn't worked. i have gotten to the point where i have locked my door and shoved my wardrobe against it. i have blocked charlie's number and blocked michael's within the first three days. why am i spending these three, long weeks like this when maybe, i could be going out, i could be making out with my boyfriend without hiding anything for once? i have no idea, and that's what i've been questioning for the past seven days.

when did this addiction to alcohol start? i ask myself. maybe it was after solitaire's final. maybe it was before. i don't know.

all i know is that this is my only escape from my life; reality.

michaels' found my blog. i can't use that anymore. i can't have him worrying about me more then he already does. he doesn't deserve to have to worry about his shitty fucking girlfriend twenty four seven. he's got enough on his plate, he has skating to do, he has olympics to win, he has all these big things to do in life and maybe, one of my biggest ways of supporting him, is to not let him worry. he doesn't need to worry.

i can't fucking write in a journal, who would do that? even though i started going to therapy, it's not like a fucking journal, a fucking book of words that you write down yourself and complain about how fucked up your life is would work. that doesn't just fix things. in fact, i tried it once, just to see, and it only made me feel worse, because my problems are fucking pathetic. just because solitaire happened doesn't mean i have horrible trauma.

everyday i promise myself that this will be the last bottle of vodka i drink. there will be no more. one last sip and then everything will be over. i'll get out of this phase and everything will be okay. but it doesn't.

michael fucking bangs on the front door for about the thousandth time this week and i hear charlie having to say the same words 'she is fine, she's alive, she does not want to talk to anyone' and then michael leaves, and then he's back the next hour, or thirty minutes, even.

i know i could text michael, someone, tell them whats going on, why i haven't responded to anyone all week, i could tell them everything. how horribly i feel. i could tell them all of this stuff and then maybe i could get the right help, but i know it'll worry people, alot. i'll be sent to a mental hospital immediately, they'll tell mum and dad. they'll tell. mum. and dad.

they can't tell mum and dad.

i wobble to my feet after chugging the last sip of vodka in the bottle. this time i don't immediately order another bottle from doordash. i look around. they're going to see this. someones going to see this. the mess of fucking victoria annabel spring who hasn't showered in a week and smells like straight vodka. someones going to find out sooner or later. charlie, or michael, will break down my door at some point and find me here. charlie has actually already tried that but he gave up after i just kept piling more of my shit against the door until it was impossible to open it without breaking your whole entire body. nick also tried to help, but nothing would work. theres a part of me that has a desperate need for someone to find me. help me out of this hole that i accidentally shoved myself into, and part of me wants to stay inside, let it devour me until everyone hates me. at least i'll be happy. maybe i'm happier this way.