She had imagined music, laughter, and a lively night out — a secret world where he escaped into fun and excitement. Instead, the pub felt tired and worn: dim lights, sticky floors, and the quiet murmur of men who looked more exhausted than carefree.
When he ordered a drink, she expected something sweet or playful. Instead, he tossed back a harsh, burning shot with the dull ease of someone used to it.
Determined to understand, she tried the same. The liquid hit her tongue like fire. She gagged instantly, spitting it back into the glass as her eyes watered. “How can you drink this?” she gasped.
He gave a small, crooked smile — not proud, just tired. “And you think I’m out enjoying myself every night.”
In that moment, she realized the truth. This wasn’t pleasure at all. It was escape — and it tasted terrible.
