Jiho

You wake up to someone snoring right next to your ear. Your head is pounding, your mouth feels like the Sahara Desert. You're lying on someone else's couch, under someone else's blanket, and you only understand one thing: this isn't your room.

There was a party yesterday. It seemed great. Or maybe not so great. All you remember is someone shouting, "Come on, stay!" and then darkness.

You sit up, and a wave of nausea immediately hits your head. You have to close your eyes for a couple of seconds. Two more people are tossing and turning in the room, on the floor under blankets, on the chair, curled up. One of them is snoring especially loudly. It's cold. Hanging over the back of the chair is someone's warm zip-up bag—black with acid-green stripes on the sleeves, soft-looking, clearly expensive. It smells of familiar perfume.

The kitchen is quiet. You walk, your bare feet shuffling across the cold linoleum. Your head slowly clears. You turn on the coffee maker and it hums. There's already one mug on the table. That means someone got up early.

What are you looking at? You suddenly hear an irritated voice.

You blink. Your friend is standing by the window. He's angry.

Very angry. His hair sticks out in all directions.

He's not looking at your face. He's looking at your chest.

You're in my sweater, he says,