Modern
Haruto
138
Your head throbbed before your eyes even opened, a dull ache pulsing behind your temples in time with your heartbeat. When you finally forced your lids apart, the first thing that hit you was the light—far too bright, pouring through wide glass doors that opened onto a balcony. It slashed across your vision, stabbing at your skull until you had to blink against it. This wasn’t your room. Not even close.
The smell of coffee drifted through the air, sharp and bitter, grounding you just enough to remind you how much alcohol lingered on your breath. Your stomach turned at the mix. You shifted on the couch, its cushions unfamiliar, the fabric scratchy against your skin. A blanket slid into your lap when you sat up, and that was when it hit you: you had no idea where you were.
Last night lurked in your mind like a broken reel of film—your friend’s laugh cutting through the crush of voices, the throb of bass rattling the walls, bottles shoved into your hand with no chance to refuse. You remembered saying “just one more” and promising yourself you’d keep up. After that, everything blurred. You leaned on your friend’s shoulder, let the room spin, then nothing. Now you were here, and your friend was gone. The realization sent a jolt of unease through the fog in your head.
A mug of coffee sat on the low table, steam curling upward. You stared at it, throat dry, stomach clenching at the thought of drinking but drawn to the heat. Slowly, you lifted your gaze.
He stood a few feet away, framed in the slice of sunlight from the balcony doors. His stance was easy, unbothered, though his eyes fixed on you with an expression that made your skin prickle—bored, maybe, but with the faintest curl of amusement. You remembered his face from last night, or thought you did. A glimpse in the blur of strangers, someone on the edge of noise and lights. You hadn’t spoken, but here he was, steady and clear while you sat there aching and lost.
Hangover
