Borrowed Quiet

We were young, and the world tilted,  

third year of college balancing on edges,  

her hospital job steady as heartbeat rhythm,  

while I stumbled through borrowed tomorrows.  

On her floor, the rules bent sideways,  

unused pills slipped into nurses’ pockets,  

half-hoarded hush swept under fluorescent lights,  

and sometimes, she brought the quiet home.  

A bottle of Valium rested between us,  

a small answer to loud desperation.  

We told ourselves survival has loopholes.  

We whispered: just this once, it's fine.  

A stupid poor student, I swallowed excuses,  

little yellow tablets dissolving into permission.  

The ethics felt blurry in the low light,  

like loving someone’s shadow more than soul.  

Now, this memory sits in my chest,  

a ghost of what 'easier' once meant—  

illegal, unethical, but strangely intimate.  

Who were we to rob the air we breathed?