Looking back, you realise that you can pinpoint the exact moment when you hit rock bottom.
It was on a train back home at six in the morning after your Year 12 formal (and the after-party that followed.) Sprawled across one seat, your blood-red stilettos jutting threateningly over the edge. The cool leather felt cold against your still-warm legs. Your eyes felt heavy, and you’re not sure whether it was the result of sleep deprivation or too much eye makeup. A bit of both, probably.
You mentally replay the night before-well, the parts you remember- for about the hundredth time.

You were waiting outside, watching him chatting animatedly with the other teachers. Attempting to permanently burn everything about him onto your corneas in thirty seconds- the overly-gelled black hair, the ever-present dimples, the unexpectedly full lips that hinted at an underlying sensuality. Mentally preparing your speech- “You probably already knew- but I think you should hear it straight from me, not some gossipy Year Nines…I do care about you, that much is true, but I also respect you and think you’re an amazing teacher…” But he was showing no signs of heading towards the door, your friends were yelling at you to get on the afters bus and in the end, you just decided to give up.
That nagging feeling at the back of your head didn’t go away; though-so of course, you had no choice but to silence it ( temporarily, at least) with vodka.
You felt a slight pang as the cool, clear liquid travelled down your throat, remembering how he used to say something about vodka and a babushka in a faux-Russian accent. It wasn’t as good as his South African one, though- despite the fact that all he could say was “I can’t believe it!”

The pang had faded considerably after the next two drinks, as did your co-ordination, your common sense, and your inhibitions. After your fourth, all you can remember is swaying rather haphazardly to a Backstreet Boys song and trying desperately not to trip as you walked down stairs.
Oh, and there was…what’s-his-name. Some sleaze who stuck his tongue down your throat at the peak of your inebriation. You probably would have told him to get lost had you been sober, but at 3 a.m. in a dark, smoky nightclub after losing the only guy you’ve ever truly cared about (and about four standard drinks), you start to see things slightly differently.

Eventually, you and your friends manage to teeter over to the station and get on this train. You looked out the window at the cloudy grey morning and realised three things. One, the sun will probably not make an appearance today. Two, your head felt like someone had filled it with lead .Three- it had to get better from here.