I open the fridge to reach for the can that’s been calling to me since I finished my matcha. I’m the first person to admit that I’m attached, but calling it an addiction would mean there’s something wrong with it. I prefer the term simple pleasure. The can pops with a hiss when I press down the tab. The first sip feels so comforting, the carbonation greeting me like an old friend. I know one sip isn’t enough to start feeling the effects of the caffeine, but I swear some of the exhaustion weighing me down eases from my shoulders. Twelve ounces can’t make up for the fact that I haven’t slept
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