Allegro
BODHI
THREE WEEKS SOBER
“Today I want us to talk about change.”
Ricky, our counsellor, reclined in his armchair and crossed one tweed-covered leg over the other. “Not the big, dramatic kind. The slow kind. The kind that creeps up on you while you’re busy surviving.”
His eyes moved around the circle of addicts like they did every session. And like every other time I felt his gaze land on me, my body reacted before my brain could catch up. I shifted in my seat, willing him not to start with me.
“Addiction doesn’t appear out of nowhere,” Ricky continued. “It doesn’t just begin on a random Tuesday over a casual pint after work, or with a couple of painkillers for a headache. For most people, addiction starts because something changes.”
He clasped his hands together and rested them in his lap.
“Your routine shifts. A relationship ends. A dream alters shape. Sometimes change hurts. And sometimes it just feels . . . flat.”
He paused, letting the silence do its thing. Letting his words sink in under our skin.
“So, let’s start here,” he said gently. “What changed for you, and how did you respond?” He gestured to the group. “Not how you think you should have responded. How you actually did.”
Someone across the circle began to speak, and I felt my shoulders ease a fraction.
I’d been at the Willow for three weeks, and so far I’d mastered the art of saying just enough to avoid suspicion.
Everyone knew I was an addict, that part was obvious, but everything else I’d shared was surface level.
Polished. Sanitised. The kind of thing you could lift straight from a self-help article or Addiction for Dummies.
I’d found my voice more easily in one-on-one sessions with Dr Williams. She was in her early fifties, warm in a way that radiated safety. Major mom energy. Something about her made it easier to lower my guard, as long as we were tucked away inside her second-floor office.
Maybe it was the wavy brown hair threaded with grey.
Or the laugh lines that suggested a life filled with warmth instead of damage.
Or the fact she favoured sky-blue Chucks covered in yellow ducks, paired with earrings shaped like balloon dogs.
It was hard to feel threatened by someone dressed like that.
There was only one other person at the Willow who knew anything real about me.
Iggy was curled up in a green-velvet wingback chair across the circle, fuzzy-socked feet tucked under his ass. His painted fingernails tapped against the armrest to a rhythm only he could hear, eyes distant like he was halfway inside his own head.
It’d been a week since I’d let him paint my face during art therapy. He’d done his best to invade my personal space after our first shared smoke in the gardens, and instead of putting him off, it seemed to encourage him.
Now Iggy sat with me at every meal, slowly upgrading his position from across the table to right beside me. He never pushed when I stayed quiet. Instead, he filled the space himself, chatting about life in London and whatever K-pop group had captured his attention that day.
During music therapy, he’d planted himself beside an old Yamaha keyboard and begged me to teach him something.
I’d tried to ignore him, I really had. But the sight of the white keys made my fingers itch, and when he looked up at me with that exaggerated pout and those bright green, pleading eyes, I folded like a lawn chair.
I kept it simple. Chopsticks. He played it again and again until it almost sounded like music.
In art therapy, he waited patiently while I finished my sketches before pulling out his face paints.
He followed a floral piece with bold, geometric shapes after discovering a dusty old Picasso textbook.
And then he turned my face into a skull, which was actually impressive.
Especially the fine, hairline cracks he painted into the bone, delicate enough that it looked like my face might crumble if I breathed too hard.
Iggy had become a constant, pink-haired presence in my day-to-day life at the Willow, and I knew he’d remain a permanent fixture in my memories when I eventually looked back on this place. And the strangest part was . . . I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t loathe the way he talked and talked and talked until I wondered how he ever had anything left to say.
I didn’t hate the way his musical laugh filled a room, or the inappropriate jokes he cracked when things grew too heavy.
I didn’t mind the appreciative squeaks he made throughout meals, like a kid discovering a new favourite food every time we sat down.
I didn’t even care when I found myself knocking on his door each morning, coaxing him out of bed so he wouldn’t miss our first session of the day.
Somehow, I’d come to expect Iggy at my side.
And when he finally appeared, smiling too brightly and speaking a mile a minute, I realised I even sort of liked it.
Like Dr Williams, he brought an unexpected warmth with him.
One I hadn’t anticipated finding in rehab.
It made recovery feel less terrifying. Possible, in a way it hadn’t at the start.
“Bodhi.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. The room snapped back into focus, and I realised every pair of eyes was on me.
Ricky cleared his throat and smiled. It was the knowing kind.
The kind that said he’d clocked my absence but wasn’t about to shame me for it.
No, this was an ambush of opportunity. A hope that today might finally be the day I said something real.
“Would you like to share?” he asked gently. “What changed for you?”
A part of me wanted to punch him.
He’d framed it like a choice, and technically it was. I could’ve declined. Could’ve stayed quiet. But I felt the weight of his unspoken request. To open up. To bleed a little in front of a room full of strangers who were meant to understand. And maybe they would. At least in theory.
Still, shame prickled at the back of my neck. This wasn’t the first time I’d zoned out, and I couldn’t remember every story that had been shared over the past few weeks. I doubted anyone expected me to remember theirs either, but the guilt lingered anyway.
“Um . . .” I started, then stalled.
My gaze drifted to the green wingback chair across the circle, drawn there without conscious thought. To the pink-haired man who’d bulldozed his way into my life and carved out a space for himself, at least for the duration of our twelve-week sentence.
Iggy had straightened in his seat. His emerald eyes caught the afternoon light, bright and intent. I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at me, but I imagined it was something close to fear. Uncertainty.
Is this okay?
Can I do this?
Is it safe?
And thankfully, he seemed to know what I needed, even without words.
Iggy gave a quick nod. Barely there. Small enough that it felt like a secret just between us. But it was enough. The tightness in my chest eased, the chains around my voice slackening for the first time since I’d arrived at the Willow.
The words came.
“So, well, I’m a, uh . . . musician,” I said, shifting in my seat. “I started a band with some friends when we were eighteen. At first, it was just for fun. We had dreams of making it big, sure, but it didn’t feel serious yet.”
I glanced around the circle, forcing myself not to shrink under the attention.
“We played small clubs, bars, battle-of-the-bands nights. That kind of thing. And every time I stepped onto a stage . . .” I huffed out a breath, sinking back as the memory took hold.
“Fuck. It was exhilarating. Standing under those lights, playing to whoever we could pull in. Ten people, a hundred—it didn’t matter.
We played like we were trying to fill an arena. ”
Across the circle, Iggy planted his socked feet on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His mouth hung open slightly, lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe I was talking. Honestly, neither could I. This was more than I’d said to anyone outside Dr Williams’s office in three weeks.
“We worked our asses off,” I continued. “Pooled whatever money we had for studio time, just to record a demo and send it out. But before we even booked a session, an exec showed up at one of our gigs. Said he was scouting local talent. Asked us to record with them.”
My mouth twitched as I pictured it. Younger versions of Riff, Mick, and me screaming and laughing in an alley behind a dive bar, convinced we’d just been handed the world. Ghost and Thump weren’t even in our lives yet.
“The label liked our sound, so we recorded our first EP. Then they sent us on tour as an opening act for a well-known band in the States, and it was like everything exploded overnight. People knew our names. Our faces were everywhere. Fans sang along to lyrics we’d written in our tiny bedrooms.”
I paused, inhaling slowly.
“I think that’s when the drinking really picked up. The drugs came later. At first it all felt . . . casual. Weed at parties. Coke when we were on our third show in a row and barely functioning.”
Heads nodded around the circle. Understanding. Familiarity. Iggy worried at his lower lip, fists clenched on his thighs.
“The best part was playing with my friends,” I said quietly.
“Even as things got bigger, it still felt like we were kids jamming in a garage after school.” I rubbed at the back of my neck, fingers catching in hair that had grown too long.
“And then something shifted. We just kept growing, making more money than any of us knew how to handle. Our contract ended, and we signed with one of the biggest labels in the world.”
My chest tightened.
“Suddenly we were headlining. Selling out venues bigger than anything we’d ever imagined.”
The pressure built fast, swelling inside me like a balloon stretched too thin. My breath hitched. I fisted my hands in my hair and tugged, grounding myself in the sharp sting of pain.
Don’t panic.
Just breathe.