The Darkness Had Won

The Dallas heat hit me like a betrayal.

I stepped off the Greyhound, dragging a tattered suitcase behind me. California had promised dreams—but all I found were nightmares and an emptiness I tried to fill with powder and pills.

I missed Dallas. Missed the familiar sting of humidity. Missed Bree.

My phone buzzed.

“Where are you? I’m here.”

Guilt twisted in my gut. I had abandoned her—no goodbye, no explanation. Just vanished into the smog of Los Angeles.

“Just got off the bus. Be there in a sec.”

I spotted her cherry-red hair first, then the black lace choker hugging her neck. Bree. Still effortlessly stunning. Still radiating a warmth I didn’t deserve.

She ran to me, her honey-toned arms wrapping around me in a hug that squeezed the air from my lungs.

“Jordyn! You’re actually here.”

I hugged her back, tears stinging my eyes.

“I’m here, Bree. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled back, eyes scanning my face.

“Sorry? You disappear for two years—don’t call, don’t write—and all I get is ‘sorry’?”

I flinched.

“I know. I messed up. Badly. Can we talk about it? Please?”

She sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Yeah, Jordyn. We need to talk.”

⸻

We ended up at a downtown dive bar. Sticky floors. Flickering neon signs. Cheap whiskey. It felt familiar, like coming home.

“So,” Bree began, swirling the ice in her glass, “what happened?”

I hesitated. The truth felt like a jagged shard lodged in my throat.

“I wanted to be a model, Bree. A real one. Not just some small-town girl with big dreams.”

“And?”

“And it wasn’t what I thought it would be. LA is… brutal. I got a few gigs, but…”

I couldn’t say it—the coercion, the shame, the things I traded just to stay visible.

Bree reached across the table, her hand covering mine.

“You don’t have to tell me everything. I just need to know you’re okay.”

I forced a smile.

“I’m… getting there. It’s good to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

Then softer:

“But I see it, Jordyn. The way you flinch when someone touches you. The way you pick at your skin. You’re not okay.”

I pulled my hand away. The whiskey burned a little hotter now.

“I’m fine, Bree. Just tired.”

The lie hovered in the air—thick, undeniable.

⸻

Days became weeks.

I crashed on Bree’s couch. Found work at a tattoo parlor—piercing noses, inking skin. It was mindless. Repetitive. Perfect.

Bree tried. God, she tried.

She made dinner. Dragged me to movies. Planned girls’ nights with rom-coms and face masks. But I was a ghost—haunting the edges of my own life.

“You need help, Jordyn,” she said one night.

“Therapy. Something. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” I snapped.

“Pretending everything’s okay. You’re not eating. You barely sleep. And I hear you crying at night. I’m worried about you.”

I turned away.

“I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

“I can’t leave you alone,” she whispered.

“I love you. You’re my best friend.”

“Then stop trying to fix me.”

My voice was venom.

“I’m unfixable.”

I stormed out.

⸻

I ended up at a club. The bass thumped like a second heartbeat. Lights blurred. Bodies swayed.

I found a dealer. Swallowed a few pills with cheap vodka. Let the numbness wrap around me like a blanket.

That’s when I saw him.

Malik.

He leaned against the bar, brown eyes locked on me. Tall. Muscular. A cascade of dark curls framed his face. He looked like he belonged in a painting—somewhere far more beautiful than this.

He walked toward me, slow and deliberate.

“You look like you could use some company.”

I shrugged.

“Maybe I could.”

We talked for hours. About everything. About nothing. He was a musician. A poet. A dreamer. He saw through the makeup, the ink, the armor. He saw me.

“You’re beautiful, Jordyn,” he said.

I laughed, hollow.

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

⸻

We started dating.

He took me to art galleries, open mic nights, parks where we lay on the grass and watched the stars. He listened. To my stories. My fears. My silence. He didn’t judge. Didn’t try to fix me. He just held my hand and stayed.

And for the first time in years—I felt hope.

One night, after one of his shows, we ended up at my place. The air between us buzzed with possibility.

He kissed me—slow and tender, like I was something precious.

“I want you, Jordyn.”

And I wanted him too.

We moved together like tides, like smoke, like forgiveness. He made love to me like he believed I was worth saving.

“I love you,” he said, after.

“I love you too,” I whispered, the words foreign but true.

⸻

But even Malik’s love couldn’t reach the darkness inside me.

The trauma. The self-loathing. The addiction. It all festered—quietly, persistently.

I started using again. Secretly.

The guilt gnawed at me, but the need was louder. The drugs dulled everything. Made the silence bearable.

Malik noticed.

“What’s going on, Jordyn? You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Please. Talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

“You can’t help me, Malik. No one can.”

His eyes were oceans of sorrow.

“Don’t say that. I love you. I believe in you.”

“Love isn’t enough.”

I broke up with him that night.

He deserved better.

⸻

I spiraled.

Lost my job. My apartment. Myself.

Bree kept trying. I stopped answering. I didn’t want her to see me like this.

I ended up in a motel room. Dingy. Cold. The wallpaper peeling like sunburned skin. My hands shaking.

I had nothing left. No hope. No future.

Just a cocktail of pills and powders.

I swallowed them all. Washed it down with vodka. The world spun, colors smeared into each other. I closed my eyes.

A single tear slipped out.

“I’m sorry.”

Then—

nothing.

⸻

Bree found me the next day.

She called Malik. Her voice broke with sobs.

They stood over me, holding each other. Hearts in pieces.

“She was so beautiful,” Malik whispered.

“I tried to save her.”

“I know,” Bree said, her tears falling on my lifeless face.

“We all did.”

But no one could save me from myself.

The darkness had won.

⸻

Author’s Note:

If you’re reading this and you’re struggling—you’re not alone. There’s help, even when you can’t feel it. There’s still time to choose life. To reach out.

Please don’t wait until it’s too late.

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 anytime.

⸻