Miss, Do I Know You?

15 - Saturday, December 12

Gathering shards of courage, I cleared my parched throat and asked, "What happened?"

Her silence and avoidance of eye contact were telling. "You don't remember?" Alex finally murmured, more to herself than me. "Figures."

Flashes of the previous night came back in disjointed fragments—singing with Sophia, the afterparty, loud music, laughter, alcohol and bitter smoke warming my throat, the high of whatever pills I had accepted, cloudy arguments, and an overwhelming sense of weightlessness. Everything else, however, was smudged beyond my comprehension.

My puzzled gaze remained fixed upon her natural features, probing for any trace of an answer. All the boundaries separating us seemed to have blurred the moment I had awakened in her bed. "Why am I here?"

"You tell me." Alex swiveled to face me, her gaze a mixture of concern and rightful disappointment. "Why did I have to deal with your mess again in the middle of the night? Why were you there in the first place, and in such a state?"

"Look, you don't understand. I didn't—"

"What don't I understand? Seriously, why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

"It was just a wrong call," I muttered, my voice so low I almost couldn't hear myself, my eyes fixed on my toes curling. I didn't even know what exactly I was apologizing for. All I knew was that once again, I had disappointed someone I cared about and that I deserved it. "I'm sorry I bothered you."

She scoffed. "This isn't about inconvenience, Mikayla. Who knows what could've happened to you? I was worried sick when you called me, mumbling all sorts of unintelligible things."

Her words sent my nails clawing into my own flesh. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. And in case you've forgotten, I can't just go running outside at ungodly hours to scour the streets for you. The problem is the state you were in when I finally found you, nearly passed out at the front door of your apartment. What were you thinking?"

My heart gave a shaky jolt, resonating with the palpable weight of her disappointment. A dull ache pounded at my temples, my insides yearning for the comfort of my pills, and I felt the sting of imminent tears, proof of the overwhelming swell of anxiety within.

"I wasn't," came my muted confession. "Where's my bag? I'll go away. Just give me my bag."

She shut her laptop. "I'll make you something to eat. You don't look so great."

"No, just give me my bag. I'll go then. I need my, uh, phone. I have to get home."

"Your phone is in your jacket, but it's dead."

"I have a headache. There's pills in my bag."

"I really don't think you should be taking meds now," she said, descending from her chair and stepping before me. "I think I know what's really happening here."

"No, you don't." I frantically scoured the room, my head on a perpetual swivel. I wrestled with the uncertainty of whether she had genuinely pierced through my fabrications or remained blissfully ignorant of my intentions. "Please, I'll stop bothering you if you just give me my stuff."

In a whirlwind of frantic dismay, my eyes darted around, every muscle of my body strained with alarm while my fingers skittishly fiddled with the hem of my shirt. An attempt at calmness came as a hand settled on my shoulder, but my instincts recoiled.

"No, I need them," I muttered, desperation coloring each word. "And my keys. I have to make sure Olivia is okay."

Panic coiled tighter around my heart as the sting of imminent tears blurred my vision and my breath did not quite reach my lungs. I felt my words edge into a desperate plea, with every emotion—temper, trepidation, despair—threatening to overtake my senses. Her proximity only amplified my claustrophobia, morphing into a living barrier between my exit and me.