I don't remember deciding to break into the house not properly. I remember the fog in my head, the pills, the burn of vodka still in my throat, the sense that the world was soft around the edges. I pushed open the back door expecting emptiness and found warmth instead. A hallway light. A family photo on the wall. A bed that looked clean and safe. I lay down telling myself it would be just for a minute. I pulled the stranger's duvet over my shoulders. The room smelled like someone's life, someone's routine, someone who trusted their home was theirs. I woke to police standing over me, shouting, torches in my face. I hadn't stolen anything. But I'd taken something worse their sense of security. And I still feel the weight of that.