Page 95 of The Song We Lost

For a second, I don’t know where I am. I wake up with my mouth full of cotton and my heart already sprinting. The ceiling is unfamiliar, too white, too clean. The curtains are cracked just enough for a blade of daylight to stab through, bright and wrong, and my stomach twists like it’s recognizing morning as an enemy.

I blink once. Twice.

There’s a pounding in my skull that feels like someone’s trying to break out.

My phone is on the nightstand. It’s vibrating so hard it’s walking in tiny circles, rattling against the wood like it’s panicking too.

I grab it and the notifications flood the screen.

Missed call.

Missed call.

Missed call.

Dave. Dave. Dave.

A couple unknown numbers.

A few texts from people whose names I don’t recognize until I stare long enough.

And then…

Noah.

My thumb freezes over his name, I haven’t heard from him since the day he left me standing in another hotel room, my world crumbling down around me.

One missed call.

Then another.

Then one more from last night.

My chest tightens, the sensation sharp enough that for a second I think I might actually be having a heart attack.

I don’t remember what day it is.

I don’t remember going to bed.

I don’t remember if I called him back. If I ignored him. If I…

The phone rings again and Dave’s name flashes across the screen. I answer without thinking.

“Where the fuck are you?” he snaps.

My voice comes out rough. “In bed.”

“Yeah, no shit. Where, Luke?”

I sit up slowly, the room tilting a fraction to the left. The air smells like stale cologne and whiskey and something sweet I can’t place. There’s a half-empty bottle on the dresser like an accusation.

“Hotel,” I mutter.

“What hotel?”

I drag my hand down my face, trying to pull my brain into place. “I don’t know.”

Silence. Then, softer, but not kinder…