Sam never drank alone; he wasn’t an alcoholic. There was always a crowd standing around him. It was almost amusing to think that he was once considered a loner, an outcast.
As adulthood took hold, the armor he had constructed around himself began to crack and fall away. He ventured out into the world, the real world.
He made friends. He made enemies, too, of course, but decided that it was all part of the experience. He found both glee and grief, love and loss.
There was more misfortune than fortune in the real world. More that was joyless than joyful. Buried in stress, responsibility, and debt, he did his best to make the most of it.
For the first time, he faced his problems rather than shielding himself from them. He embraced his woes.
He drank, but the pressure around his person let him know he was not alone, not even while the remaining barstools were empty.
He was surrounded by those closest to him, those that would never leave like the others did. He was not alone; he had a lifetime of troubles to keep him company and urge him to buy another round.