“You know, this isn’t gonna solve anything,” a soft voice chimed in. I turned to see a girl, maybe twenty-three, with a book and a knowing look.

She sat across from me, her eyes wide with a mix of pity and curiosity. “You look like hell,” she said, her voice a soft whisper.

I forced a grin. “Thanks, I think.”

She didn’t flinch. “No, really. You look like you’ve been through a war.”

I shrugged. “Something like that.”

She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “What’s your story, stranger?”

I hesitated, then launched into a rambling, incoherent tale of lost loves, broken dreams, and endless nights of self-destruction. She listened patiently, her expression unreadable.

When I finally fell silent, she simply smiled. “You know, you could write a book about this.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right. A best-seller about a stoned loser.”

“Why not?” she persisted. “You’ve got the talent, the experience. All you need is the discipline.”

I scoffed. “Discipline? That’s a word I haven’t heard in years.”

She leaned in closer. “Maybe it’s time to change that.”