Except this time, there was no rain, no anger, no wedding invitation — it was just us.It was just him — the old friend, the easy smile, the twisted solace wrapped in a glittering bottle.It was just me — the alcoholic, pretending like I didn’t want to taste him, realizing too quickly that months of being clean didn’t make me crave him any less.But we can’t start here.No, to tell this story right, we need to go back. Back to the beginning.Back to the very first drop.This is my love letter to Whiskey. I only hope he reads it.