Stopping chemsex—using drugs during sexual encounters—often means leaving behind a whole world: parties, lovers, and friends. For those who have decided to stop, it can mean the loss of relationships, the resistance of others, or the creation of new ones. Antoine, for example, found that his circle of friends, lovers, and drug suppliers were deeply connected. After failing his agrégation, a competitive French exam, he decided to move away from chemsex. Blocking certain numbers meant more than just cutting off suppliers—it meant giving up a world where he always felt welcome. "I was afraid of being abandoned," he admits. Ending his chemsex use felt like throwing away a social world, as if it would vanish entirely. Eventually, Antoine blocked his "potes de touze" (friends of the night) and accepted that some important relationships would dissolve, including two close friends. "They still count for me, but drugs were one of the cements of our friendship," he says. Joe, another person in his thirties, chose a different path. He moved to Spain, leaving behind his Saturday nights, which had been structured around the before-party-after rhythm. Chemsex had become the "dessert" of his weekends, lasting up to 48 hours. For someone addicted, it's hard to "just pass" on a night when the temptation is strong. As the parties ended, part of Joe's social life disappeared too. He didn’t immediately look for a replacement. His long descent was marked by solitude, "without joy of life or desire to connect." The trap was clear: being alone led to depression, and depression led to the urge to consume. To relearn how to be alone without feeling abandoned, he set small goals: taking a bath, watching a series, going for a walk. At first, these were mechanical tasks, but eventually, they became acts of self-care. He realized that his former social life hadn’t disappeared—it had been abandoned. "People were waiting for me," he realized, though he hadn’t yet dared to say "friends." Antoine, on the other hand, filled the void with studies he had failed before. He also began reconnecting with a few friends, choosing those who made him feel safe. "My sociability must be a place where I am not in danger," he says. After studying at the university library, he went for a drink with a revision partner, simply because he remembered enjoying it before. "And it was super!" he smiles. Antoine's friendships are like a bicycle: some return, others move on, and most had already left. He counts on one hand those who remain, but they are now the most precious: "A friend to call when I have cravings and my brother who had control of my finances," he explains. Reconnecting with parties can be part of recovery. Alexandre Nadra, a professional dancer, created the Ateliers BPM in Paris to recreate the experience of a party without drugs. The goal was to offer a space where people could feel the same kind of connection through music and movement, without the need for substances. Others have found similar communities in places like Not Today, a collective imported from London that gathers people during the week in a sober space. Emiel, a 32-year-old NGO employee, joined this group and eventually moved away from chemsex by creating a social life elsewhere. Victor, a 38-year-old history-geography teacher, once relied on drugs to feel part of a social world. Now, he finds connection through martial arts, swimming, and Narcotics Anonymous. His recovery includes managing risky situations and learning to say no. His social world has grown broader than it was when it revolved around finding the right after-party.