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"Ahhh…" My head was throbbing like hell. Keeping one hand pressed against my temple, as if that could stop the pounding, I sat up in bed. Slowly, I opened my eyes—but it didn't help. The light in the room stabbed through my eyelids. The curtains were drawn, but somehow the place was still too bright.
"What am I doing here?" I muttered, startled. Then the memories of last night started flooding back—the fight with Sandy, the bartender's worried face, the drinking.
Wait. How did I get to my room?
Sandy. I needed to talk to her.
Then it hit me—I didn't even have a phone. I couldn't believe I'd broken it.
As soon as I tried standing up, my head spun and I dropped back down, both hands clutching my temples. That's when I noticed a glass of water and a pill on the nightstand. A note stuck out from under the glass.
I picked it up, squinting at the handwriting.
>Hey you. Sorry i had to leave before you got up. I a had a morning shift at work. Take the aspirin—it'll help with with your hangover. Talk later, Samantha.
Samantha? When had she shown up? I couldn't remember seeing her at all last night. How did she even know where I was?
I gave up trying to piece it together and swallowed the pill with a sip of water. Then I leaned back against the headboard, waiting for the throbbing to ease.
After a while, I dragged myself to the room's phone and dialed Sandy's number. It went straight to voicemail. That was strange—Sandy's phone was never off. I tried her home line next. Still no answer.
Defeated, I called room service and asked for coffee. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. A man in a black-and-white uniform stood there with my order. I took the tray, thanked him, and shut the door.
I sank onto the couch and took a slow sip of the coffee, savoring the rich aroma. Black, just the way I liked it. For a while, I just sat there, letting time blur. An hour, maybe two—I couldn't tell. The movie playing on TV did little to distract me, but at least my head didn't hurt as much.
Eventually, I forced myself into the shower. The water was cold at first, and I shivered until my body adjusted. Droplets slid down my skin as I tilted my head back, letting the warmth soak in. I reached for my mint shower gel and worked up a lather, washing away the sweat and the smell of alcohol.
By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I felt a little human again. Water dripped from my hair onto the floor as I walked toward the wardrobe. I started drying my face, but then froze.
I wasn't wearing the clothes from last night.
How had I changed? There was no way I'd been sober enough to undress myself.
Could Samantha have done it?
My stomach twisted at the thought, and I shook my head, trying to push it away. No—it couldn't be her. But if not her, then who?
The more I thought about it, the warmer my face grew. Just the idea of her changing my clothes made my heart beat faster. How was I supposed to face her again?
I shook the thoughts away and began packing. I wanted to leave. Thankfully, I'd left one of my bank cards at the hotel; otherwise, I didn't know how I would have checked out or even paid for a ride home.
Then I remembered—I didn't have the room key. Just as frustration started to rise, I spotted it on the nightstand, along with some cash. Another note lay folded beneath the money.
>If you don't have your phone or your card , this is for the cab and maybe some food.
I caught myself smiling. Why did she have to be so sweet—and cute—at the same time? The thought of waking up to her notes every morning made my chest feel oddly warm.
For a moment, the guilt, the headache, the confusion—all of it faded. Just her note, her words, and that warmth spreading through me.
"I'm here to check out," I said once I reached the reception desk.
"You must have enjoyed your stay," the woman behind the counter said, noticing my smile.
I hadn't even realized I was smiling. "Yeah, it was nice," I said, nodding lightly.
"Will you be paying by card?" she asked, fingers tapping across the keyboard.
"Here." I handed it to her.
"Thank you. We hope to see you again soon."
"Sure," I said, pocketing the card before walking out.
Outside, a few cabs were lined up at the curb. Thank God—I didn't have the energy to wait. I gave the driver my address, and we set off.
By the time the cab pulled up outside my apartment, the hangover had mostly faded—but the guilt hadn't.
I stood at my door, key in hand. Part of me hoped Sandy would be inside; another part wished the opposite. I didn't know how I could face her after what had happened.
A wave of strawberry scent hit me the moment I stepped in. The apartment smelled amazing—fresh, clean, nothing like the faint paint smell it had before. The furniture had been rearranged; the coffee table now sat perfectly in the center of the room, the fleece blankets neatly folded on the couch. The floor was spotless.
The kitchen, too, was immaculate. Even the toaster I'd left unpacked was now sitting on the counter, gleaming.
I moved to my room, half-expecting to see Sandy there. The bed was neatly made, pillows stacked high—just the way I liked it. I threw my bag into the closet and walked to the second bedroom.
"Sandy?" I called, pushing the door open. No answer. I checked the bathroom—empty. Still, the space felt oddly welcoming, as if someone had just been there. The bed was perfectly made, black and white like the rest of the apartment. That color scheme was one of the reasons I'd fallen in love with this place in the first place.
I'd always liked black and white—simple, balanced, familiar. The spare room doubled as my study. My white desk stood there, empty. I'd planned to buy supplies tomorrow, my last free day before school started.
Back in the kitchen, I sat at the dining table and picked up the house phone. I tried calling Sandy again—still voicemail. Her home phone, too. Nothing.
I sighed and set the receiver down. I'd try later.
Crrrr. Crrrr. Crrrr.
The doorbell rang, and my stomach twisted. What would I even say to her if it was Sandy? Would she forgive me?
Crrrr. Crrrr. Crrrr.
The bell rang again. My legs felt heavy as I dragged myself to the door. I didn't even bother checking the camera; I just buzzed her in and left the door slightly open before sinking into the couch. My mind raced through a thousand possible apologies.
Knock. Knock.
My heart pounded. A drop of sweat rolled down my temple.
"Come in—it's open," I called, my voice trembling.
The door creaked, and a familiar voice spoke.
"Sam… Samantha?"
It came out as more of a question than a name. I didn't know whether I was more shocked—or relieved.
Either way, my heart wasn't ready for what came next.