The worst part wasn’t the drinking. It wasn’t the nights I couldn’t remember, the mornings I barely made it to work, or the quiet dread that followed me around like
You’ve always believed your art was the last honest thing you had. The quiet rebellion in brush strokes, the melody whispered at 2 a.m., the way your fingers knew the shape
You left before it felt finished. Maybe you ghosted. Maybe you sent a quick cancellation email and never followed up. Maybe life just happened, and one missed session turned into
The invitations are out. The menu is set. The wine is already chilling. And you? You’re doing mental math: Can I skip the drink without it being awkward? Will anyone
You missed a few days. Then a week. Maybe longer. And now you don’t know what to say—or if you’re even “allowed” to come back. Maybe something specific pulled you
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