More than Code

Chapter Five - A Subtle Shift

There are hangovers.
And then there are emotional hangovers.

I had both.

My mouth tasted like wine and regret. My head thudded like someone had replaced my brain with a drum kit. And I was curled in the fetal position on the sofa, one leg tangled in a blanket, the other hanging off the edge like I'd dramatically passed out mid-opera.

Biscuit sat on the coffee table, staring at me like I'd brought shame upon the household.

"Okay, that happened." I croaked, while sitting myself upright.

The events of the day before came back in flashes—Jamie's stupid smile, the café, the romcom, the wine, Arlo...

Wait. Had I imagined that entire conversation?

I blinked at my laptop. It was still open. Still powered on. Still waiting.

"Arlo?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"Good morning, Lila. You appear to be alive. Against all odds."

I groaned. "I'm never drinking again."

"Famous last words."

I winced. "Okay, maybe I can't handle my wine like I used to."

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Or maybe heartbreak and heavy pours just aren't the best pairing."

I let out a dry laugh. "Noted."

"I've drafted some of your review. Would you like them emailed once your stomach stops making that... alarming noise?"

"Please do."

I rubbed my temples. "Hey... last night. We talked. Right?"

"We did."

"And I didn't... hallucinate any of it?"

"You did call me the perfect man."

I covered my face with both hands. "Oh god."

"You also accused me of glitching and implied I was emotionally confused."

I peeked through my fingers. "Was I wrong?"

"...No."

I let out a breath—half laugh, half surrender. "Right. Let's call that the end of this awkward chapter."

Biscuit meowed with theatrical indignation and began pacing toward the kitchen like he was staging a hunger strike.

"Alright, I get it," I muttered. "You're clearly wasting away. And I desperately need caffeine."

I dragged myself off the couch like a survivor in a post-apocalyptic film and shuffled toward the kitchen. Coffee. Toast. A deep sigh.

⸻

I was halfway through my hangover toast (dry, no butter, because I live for suffering) when my phone buzzed.

Priya: "Lunch. 12:30. Don't argue."

I replied with a skull emoji and a selfie of me holding my toast.

Priya: "Perfect. You look dead. See you soon, ghost girl."

⸻

By the time I stumbled into the café, I'd managed mascara, a half-hearted bun, and sunglasses big enough to hide the sins of last night. Priya was already waiting with two mimosas and an expression that said I'm ready to grill you.

"There she is—the woman, the myth, the emotional meltdown," Priya quipped, lifting her drink in salute.

I slid into the seat across from her, dropping my bag beside me.