FIA
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Fia? Fia, are you alright?"
The voice came from somewhere far away at first. Muffled, as it was distant. Like it was calling to me through water. I groaned, my face sticky against something flat and rough. Pages. I was face down on pages.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Fia?"
I peeled my cheek off the open book and blinked. The room was still dim, the kind of grey light that only came in the earliest hours of morning when the sun hadn't fully committed to rising yet. My neck ached. My mouth was dry. And there, right in the center of the open page, was a wet smear.
Drool.
I was drooling on the book.
