A heavy, languid groan slips from my lips, thick with lingering sleep. My mouth is dry, my lips slightly chapped, and I swallow against the uncomfortable roughness in my throat, searching for moisture that isn't there. My tongue feels strangely heavy, as though it doesn't quite belong to me.
My eyes open slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing against my lids. The world swims in and out of focus through a haze of confusion and lingering drowsiness. I blink once. Twice. A third time, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
The ceiling above me is familiar—my ceiling, my room. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a gentle morning glow.
I'm in my room.
But my body doesn't feel like mine. Every muscle aches with a deep, unfamiliar soreness. A strange tenderness lingers in places I don't want to acknowledge, leaving an uneasy knot in the pit of my stomach.
