Luke

You wake up to someone snoring right next to your ear. Your head is pounding, your mouth is empty. You're lying on someone else's couch, under someone else's blanket, and you understand only 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, curled up on the chair. One of them is snoring especially loudly. It's cold. Someone's warm zip-up bag is hanging over the back of the chair—black with acid-green stripes on the sleeves, soft and cozy. 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—it hums. There's already one mug on the table. So someone got up earlier. And indeed. Your friend was standing by the window. He's angry. Very angry. He stands there, looking from your eyes to the sweater you were wearing when you woke up.

"What are you looking at?" you said angrily to your friend, who was looking at you.

He took 4 steps forward, leaving you literally a meter apart.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” he says, looking at you with an angry gaze and a low voice, as if he’s about to kill you.