A lone figure stands beneath the harsh glow of a station light.
Beside him, the red gas pump: not for cars, but for the spirit. It is the fuel of addiction, the product that keeps the motor running, even as it corrodes within.
Night stretches infinite around him, pushing loved ones further away.
He smokes, telling himself he is sober, yet what he really inhales is fear — the solitude that terrifies him most.
This work is my own confession: we all carry addictions, quiet battles, moments where we stand alone, feeding on the very thing that consumes us.
