My friend, the 'inspired' drug addict

I once had a friend named Mani. He was what I now call a 'drug addict', though back then, he was just a boy in my theater class who I was infatuated with. Someone I really wished would pick up his pieces.
He was everywhere and he was vibrant. His acting was strong and passionate. But his energy on stage was almost completely chemical-based. Off-stage, he was unable to make eye contact without desiring another kind of contact — stubby fingertips scratched my neck and waist when I least expected it.
He only visited me at home once. I kept waiting for him to finish going through my kitchen, so he could come out and actually talk to me. When he finally sat down next to me, we didn't speak for a long time. His eyes, by then, had grown large and black like sewer water.
Mani seemed to expand to fill the space he occupied. There was always too much of him — not literally. It was awkward sitting next to him, thinking of something to say other than: Hey, Mani, stop doing drugs. Bad things happen to drug addicts, they're poor and they smell and they get raped in the ass.
After a while, he got up and said, "Look, I'm going to go. I'll see you tomorrow though. Are you coming to rehearsal?" Fingers reached the back of my neck and pinched. "You're like, my favorite person there. Or anywhere. Everywhere!" He giggled and left. I didn't see him again for a year.
One day during rehearsals, he sat on the ledge in the common courtyard, talking to a bored audience.
"The thing about my words is…" (Mani was older, and the little toenail on his right foot had inexplicably disappeared). He motioned everywhere, pulling at his thin T-shirt, leaving fist shaped hollows in the fabric. "I don't feel the need to abide by these rules — you know what I mean?! Why does society make us do things? Because it wants control." He nodded at me, the only one who was still looking at him. "We have to set ourselves free. Free!" he squawked, nodding till the director informed us that break was over.
Before that rehearsal ended, Mani had pissed on the director's car and got fired from the last play he would ever do.
"Mani," I said, as I opened the door of the dressing room later. "YOU STUPID, SCUMMY F***!" he screamed, then saw me and said, "Oh. I thought it was that f*****." He turned away and resumed throwing his things into a bag.
"Listen," he said, without turning around, "Do you have any money?" It was so textbook that I want to laugh. Instead, I pulled out my wallet and emptied it.
"Thanks." He turned around and touched my wrists. "I'll return this. You're my favorite, you know that."
I thought this would be a good point to say: Hey Mani, stop doing drugs. Bad things happen to drug addicts, they- but it was too late, all the bad things had already happened. With no threats left, I just watched him count the money, put it into his pants and walk out.