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. 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 the air bore a scent unfamiliar to my memory. 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 and thirsted 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 usually not fully clothed. My mind raced with possibilities. Had I been kidnapped or drugged—though I had probably done that to myself—or had I just stumbled into the wrong room at some party? Or perhaps I had finally gone completely mad, and it was all just a fever dream.

On legs that moved as if through the viscous fog of a dream, I ambled across the room. Despite the slight fear in my heart, it was cozy. The white walls sported touches of sunlit amber that harmonized with the deep brown colors of the furnishings, setting a beautiful contrast to the sage curtains that framed the windows. Nestled 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, infusing the space with a breath of vitality.

Amidst it all, the conspicuous absence of my bag resonated like a silent scream. My body ached for its contents—a missing piece of me that rendered the rhythm of my morning profoundly askew, especially in light of the concerning lack of memories.

Keen to remain inconspicuous, I twisted the doorknob and let my eyes skate over the living room; beneath the window stood the dark emerald green of a couch, walls enriched with more plants, paintings, and pictures that my foggy vision could not discern. Beyond that, the kitchen was empty, and the wall clock was a reminder of many daylight hours lost to sleep. Near the front door, I spied my jacket hanging and mentally mapped a swift exit. Until I stole a glance at the photo frame on one of the shelves and my heart seized in all the ways it could.

No idea if it was fear or peace I felt, or whether I wished to snatch my jacket and tiptoe out the door or remain to 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 had somehow stumbled into her very apartment, and I had slept in her very bed.

I was just starting to pick pieces of the forgotten night from the back of my mind when I heard a door open and spun around. She stopped in her tracks when she saw me, dressed in baggy sweatpants and an even baggiest sweater, 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 just 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.