Bets, Beds & Treads ۶ৎ

𝒙𝒙𝒙.

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ xxx
| ғ ʀ ᴇ ᴀ ᴋ ʏ |
𝐑 𝐄 𝐈 𝐆 𝐍

𝗠𝗬 𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗕𝗨𝗭𝗭𝗘𝗗.

Once. Then Again. Then five more times in a row.

I blinked, groggy and half-blind in the dark but it wasn’t the sounds that had me frowning.

It was the time.

It was way past midnight. I’d crashed out early since hours of editing, studying, just existing had drained me. My spine hurt. My brain begged for silence.

As usual, I didn’t need to check who it was. No one else would blow up my phone like this unless someone was dead. And even then, probably not this persistently.

Only one person was that much of a menace to be this loud through a screen at this hour.

I reach for my phone, squinting at the screen. The brightness stabbed through my skull and blurry. Of course. Not wearing my glasses was a mistake. Again. I've really got to stop reading without them. I squint harder.

And sure enough, it's her.

[Reina | 1:47 AM]
I hate you

What the hell?

Flicking on the table lamp, I sit up, spine cracking from the sudden shift, rubbing a hand down my face. I rummage through the drawer and slip on the glasses.

[Reina | 1:47 AM]
Fuck youuuuu

[Reina | 1:48 AM]
O think ur so cook don't u? But your jug annoying. You know that? Like paint fully annoyed

[Reina | 1:48 AM]
But lick. Hot. Annoyed. Which is words

...Right. She probably thought that made sense.

I scroll down, half-dreading what else she might've sent. Like expected, it gets worse.

A sigh slipped past my lips. Reina. No question. Wasted.

I tapped on one of the voice notes.Her voice spilled through, all slurred edges and breathy giggles, a mess of nonsense.

I exhale and lean back against the headboard, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand.

There’s that part of me—annoying, stubborn—that clenches without my will. It feels like someone reached in and pressed a hand right over my ribs. But I shove it down deep as always.

Like she'd listen to anything I have to say. She never does.

I reminded myself—this isn’t my business. People drink. They party. And she’s fine. Probably. Also, she always had a gaggle of admirers around her.

No. Not going there.

I don't bother to respond to her drunk text. Instead, I toss it on silent and let it drop onto the nightstand with a soft thud. I don't care...

or so I thought.

But 5 mins in, and my brain refused to shut off.

Giving up, I stared at the ceiling as memories of that day starts to flood in.

Some random party my mom guilt-tripped me into going to. Said I needed to “experience madteeness”—teen madness: that was what she said it was. Don't ask me how she even knew there was a party at that place because I don't know, either.