"There's only so many times I can put my heart back together"
"Why are you so sure I'll break it again?"
🖤🤍🖤
Andrew had a perfect life. Or so others would think.
Living under his father's control was a nightmare. Having his dreams ignored and bei...
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Nicole hadn't known what tequila tasted like. All the shots she had drunk were at the bar where Miguel used to work, adorned with salt and lemon. Her brain associated the drink with the burning hot sensation down her throat and the bitterness of the lemon juice on her tongue. She soon found out she didn't like the aftertaste of the drink without its complements.
"Oh god, I'm dead," she moaned, and crawled on top of Miguel's black leather sofa, bottle hanging from her hand.
He was quick to join her, sitting on the carpet with his back against the sofa. Getting into his flat wasn't an issue, but finding the keyhole on the inside to lock the door had made him question his sobriety on all the other nights he had arrived home drunk. Still, he closed his eyes and let the world spun within his eyelids.
"I don't think I share your problems, my dear," he pointed out. "In fact, I believe that last shot fucked me up pretty good."
She mumbled something against the cold fabric, to which he agreed. He took the bottle from her hand and took another sip. His regard for himself was wearing thinner and thinner as the night progressed.
"Are we going to talk about why you're drunk at five a.m. in my apartment?"
Nicole fumbled with her own limbs, trying to change her position. A flash of light pierced through the darkness of the room, and then everything went still again. Everything was black, no sound but they're breathing.
"It's six," she whispered, breaking the silence. "I have to open the café at seven."
He chuckled. "That'll be funny. You have an hour to get sober."
She took the bottle from him and took a long sip, feeling the alcohol burning down her chest. That feeling was her reason to drink. That warmth before everything became irrelevant. The problem was the horrifying taste in her mouth as soon as she put the bottle on the ground.
"Oh, so that's your plan? And I thought I was crazy."
"The tequila is over," she told him.
"I think I have whiskey."
"No!" she said, way too quickly. He wouldn't question it, knowing she disliked it.
"Water then. For the sake of sobriety."
Miguel got up, or at least tried, as his legs gave in, and he fell back down. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or if he just realised he didn't want to get out of his spot on the ground. Another attempt to get on his feet was made. This time, he grabbed two glasses from the kitchen and filled them with tap water.
"Grab it," he commanded before sitting by her feet. She ignored him, so he fumbled around until he found his centre table and left the glass there. "Okay then. No more pretending. We need a heart-to-heart conversation."
She moaned what sounded like a complaint, but he ignored it. He drank his water in one gulp and then turned to her, or at least to where he imagined she was. The dim light trespassed his curtains, but he could only distinguish a few shadows.
