Miss, Do I Know You?

15 - Saturday, December 12

The first assault was the splitting headache, a dull throbbing at the back of my skull that soon intensified into a blinding pain as I stumbled into wakefulness. Following closely was the dryness, my tongue feeling thick and coated, my throat echoing the barrenness of a desert. The room around me swirled in woozy patterns, with fingers of sunlight breaching the curtains and assailing my sensitive eyes.

Suppressing an inward groan, I buried myself beneath the blanket and away from any glimmer of light that dared to enter. I wanted nothing more than to return to sleep for an extra day. But just as I nestled in, an unsettling feeling of unease and confusion hit me. The texture of the sheets felt foreign beneath my fingertips, and that was not the smell of my laundry detergent. I was not in my bed.

I pushed the covers off and sat upright on the edge, waiting for consciousness to slowly claw its way in while my eyes scoured the room for any hint of my whereabouts. I had woken up in unfamiliar beds before, but never without any recollection of how and never alone, and sometimes not even fully clothed. My mind raced through every absurd possibility. Had I been kidnapped or drugged—though I had probably done that to myself—or had I just stumbled into the wrong room? Or perhaps I had finally gone completely mad, and it was all just a fever dream. With the way my head felt then, it wouldn't have surprised me.

On legs that moved as if through the viscous fog of a dream, I ambled across the room. Despite the fear in my heart, it was cozy. The white walls sported paintings and touches of amber accents that harmonized with the deep brown colors of the furniture, setting a beautiful contrast to the sage curtains that framed the window above the bed. In one corner, a desk held neat stacks of notebooks and not-so-neat everything else. A bookshelf spanned an entire wall, holding books and many plants.

But the conspicuous absence of my bag was like a silent scream. Already, my body was aching for that white bar-shaped missing piece of my routine that had made me and the morning as a whole feel profoundly askew. Especially in light of the concerning lack of memories that was my second most pressing concern then.

Keen to remain inconspicuous, I twisted the doorknob and let my eyes skate over the living room. It definitely wasn't Sophia's house. Beneath the window stood the dark emerald green of a couch, walls holding more plants, paintings, and pictures that my foggy vision could not discern. Beyond that, the kitchen was empty, and the wall clock told me just how many daylight hours I had lost to sleep. Near the front door, I spied my jacket hanging and mentally mapped a swift exit. Until I stole a closer glance at the photo frame on one of the shelves.

No idea if it was fear or peace I felt, or whether I wished to snatch my jacket and tiptoe out the door or to remain so I could give or get an explanation. But the truth was that I remained paralyzed in that space, with fingertips brushing over my temples at the subtle pulsing soreness, as if the pressure would help the pain dissipate and the anxiety fade. I was about to throw up. I had somehow stumbled into her very apartment, and I had slept in her very bed.

I was just starting to look for the pieces of the forgotten night at the back of my mind when I heard a door open and spun around. Dressed in baggy sweatpants and an even baggier sweater, she stopped in her tracks when she saw me, holding a pile of folded laundry. The silence was so loud it filled my head, not really sure what to say or how to act.

A few more seconds passed before her eyes squinted slightly. "You look like shit."

I appreciated her honesty despite my obvious confusion. "I feel like shit."

Alex huffed, not necessarily a laugh, and dropped the laundry on the couch before settling onto one of the island chairs in the kitchen and flipping open her laptop. I watched her, hoping for an explanation of some sorts, but she started acting like I didn't exist, clicking and typing away. She didn't look at me for what felt like minutes before I shuffled my way closer. With a sinking feeling, I realized she probably didn't want me here. And that was most definitely my own fault.