Your hair is matted, head pounding, mouth dryer than the Sahara. A blinding light is coming in through the windows, illuminating everything in sight. You’re laying on navy sheets and half-covered in a comforter as thick as receipt paper. This is a rare aesthetic — it’s clear where you are, and it’s clear you messed up.
You have awoken in your situationship’s bedroom.
There’s no use dwelling on the past — what happened last night, how you got here — your only focus is why you’re still there. So you sit up and set on a mission to locate your clothes.
After about five minutes of searching, you identify your Edikted halter top strewn inconveniently under the sleeping man. You delicately lift his limp arm, careful not to awake last night’s “good idea.”
He tosses a bit and you hold your breath. But then you remember he never texts you past 2 p.m., and come to the obvious realization that nothing you do is going to wake him up this early in the morning. He yawns, still asleep. You slip his vape in his mouth while it’s open — making sure baby has his binky.
You throw on your jeans and top, and triple check that you have all your things. Lipgloss, wallet, key, “all check.” Now it’s time for the worst part: the walk home.
You take one last look around before quietly opening his door and braving the outside world — his roommates. It’s always a toss-up as to where they could be. Talking about you in the living room? Likely. Passed out right in front of the entryway where you need to leave? Even likelier.
You step over unconscious Jake, accidentally stabbing him with the point of your shoe. He wakes up, and groggily realizes there’s a woman in front of him.
“Oh, hey Emily,” he says. Your name is Rachel.
You say nothing and continue toward the door. Upon stepping outside, the fresh air hits you like a brick. You’re determined to turn your life around — go home and make a green juice, take an everything shower, go for a run. You do none of these things.
The walk home is a brisk one, hyper-aware of everyone staring at you. You don’t think it’s obvious that you’re in last night’s makeup, but it is.
A few more blocks and you’re home. You enter your clean apartment with a sudden appreciation for all that is around you. The lack of food in the sink, blankets folded on the couch — it’s beautiful. You tell yourself you’re never going back there again.
You’re back next week.
