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— One Direction
11:23 – MORNING LONDON, ENGLAND
Carys woke with the distant buzz of a hangover in the back of her head, the stomping over her overhead neighbours forcing her a singular step further to suicide. Each crash, wallop and bang an addition to the searing pain, and the feeling of vomit building in the back of her throat. The traditional, I'm never drinking again, thought ran circles in her mind as she waited to be hit with a flood of memories of all the foolish things she'd done when the alcohol had control over her body.
With a grunt, the brunette rolled over, eyes landing on the digital clock that lay on a pile of unread books by her bed. Each had been gifted to her for Christmas by her brother, Bryn — don't tell him she hadn't read them, he'd kill her. She simply hadn't got around to it. Something about sitting down to read a book about randoms falling in love didn't seem too appealing, at least not anymore.
"Ugh," Carys rolled her eyes as she read 11:24 — Bryn and Niamh would be around soon and her flat was still a shit hole. She was a single woman living in central London, what else could they expect?
Dragging herself from her bed, Carys wandered through her flat, picking up loose beer bottles, gin cans and glasses from pres with Gaida the night before, placing an order from Pret A Manger on Uber Eats.
"How the fuck do you manage to live in such a small space?" Bryn questioned almost immediately as Carys opened the door to his knocking an hour later. He'd never been one for greetings, at least not with his sisters. He was blunt, no hesitation about him.
"Well, if you hadn't noticed, I live by myself now," Carys rolled her eyes, "and be grateful I'm offering you a place to stay for the night."
"She's right, babe," Carys felt the vomit rise in her throat once more as her brother's fiancé spoke up, soon forgetting the feeling as Niamh pulled her in for a tight hug. "Thanks, where should we put our stuff?"
Carys ran a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her eyes, "Uh— anywhere really. Next to the sofa bed is a good shout, sorry I'm quite unprepared."
"Hungover?"
"Woke up late."
"Ah."
A grin played on Bryn's thin lips, pretending he didn't know the state his sister was in — eye bags, an open pack of paracetamol tablets on the counter, her blurred posts on Instagram the night prior, it was painfully obvious. "You've at least packed though?"
