Hangover

"Ugh, my head! Mia, I am going to kill you!" I exclaim, groaning as I press an ice pack to my forehead and slump onto the couch.

"Don't shout! I'm already feeling dead, so you can't even kill me!" Mia shouts, walking into the living room with her ice pack on her head, still in her pajamas, just like me.

With a playful plop, she flops onto the couch, groaning dramatically before letting out a loud, exaggerated moan.

"Mia, shut up please come on! You're killing both my ears, drums, and me! Now I feel dead!" I say, joining in on the groaning fest. Before long, we’re locked in a weird competition of who can groan the loudest.

"Well, I’m zombie dead!" Mia counters, a mischievous grin creeping across her face before it fades back to a wince of pain.

"Oh yeah? Well, I’m more than just a zombie dead!"

"You know how in those movies and games people kill zombies and they get a second death? Well, I’m the undead zombie!" I declare, pointing at myself with a goofy sense of triumph despite feeling awful and in so much pain.

"What? That doesn’t even make any sense!" Mia retorts laughing, but then she groans and holds her head again, falling back onto the couch.

"Yes, it does!" I reply, and we dive back into our playful rivalry over who feels more dead.

"Okay, I give up! We’re both dead, alright?" I say, raising my weak hands in a dramatic gesture of defeat.

"Yay!" Mia’s weak voice responds from the couch, raising her hand in triumph, full of playful enthusiasm, but I’m too worn out to look. Note to self: this is the last time I drink three bottles of wine!

Honestly, I’m swearing off alcohol; it doesn’t numb the pain, it just makes everything feel worse! , Then ten times worse the next morning after doing something Incredibly stupid because you decide to throw sense and logical reasoning out of the fucking window.

"Hey, can you make breakfast?" Mia's voice interrupts my solemn vows to swear off alcohol. It's annoying because I’ve been swearing off a lot of things lately—first love, now alcohol. What’s next, pizza?

"Why can't you make it?" I groan, protesting her unreasonable request, even though I know it’s not unreasonable; I’m just too lazy to get up.

"You cook better," she counters, and I roll my eyes.

"You can still cook too, so you go do it," I reply, sitting up because I suddenly feel sick to my stomach.

She looks at me and sighs, resigning herself to her fate. She tries to get up but fails.

"Nope, can't do it," she says and falls off the couch onto the floor. She lies there silently for a few moments before dramatically whining like a baby.

"Owie, I hurt my ...my everything!" she cries, so over the top that it’s obvious she’s faking it.

I try to respond, but I break into instant sobs—so loud that Mia jumps up in a flash. She reaches out to me, but I push her away as my body convulses.

"Alexia, come here and talk to me. What happened?"

Her voice was laced with concern as she leaned closer, her eyes searching mine for answers.

"Is it your head, or is it your stomach?" she asked, a hint of worry creasing her brow.

"Is it because of David? If it is, just know that I'm going to kill him, okay? Just you wait," I overheard her say, a fierce determination in her voice.

“Will that make you feel better, huh? Please talk to me,” she implores, shaking me with a fervor that makes it impossible for me to continue my act of fake crying. The pretended sobs morph into genuine laughter that erupts from deep within me.

“And that is how you fake cry!” I manage to say between fits of giggles. Just then, she gives me one final push, and I lose my balance, tumbling off the couch and sprawling onto the floor with a soft thud.

A slight sting radiates from my backside due to the fall, but it doesn’t bother me; I am too caught up in the hilarity of the moment. Mia’s frantic and exaggerated reaction is simply too funny to be taken seriously.

“How can you laugh? I thought you were serious! There are even tears on your cheeks, and your eyelashes are all wet!” she exclaims, settling down on the floor beside me. But the look on her face isn’t the outraged expression I had anticipated; instead, it’s a mixture of disbelief and amusement that makes me laugh even harder.

"And the Grammy award goes to..."

"Alexia!" I exclaim, playfully mimicking the sound of an enthusiastic crowd cheering. "Alexia, we love you!" I throw my arms up in celebration, but Mia's expression remains unimpressed, her eyes cast downward as if lost in thought.

I can’t help but pout a little, surprised by her subdued reaction. "You know, this isn't the response I expected from you," I say, trying to inject some lightness into the moment, yet all she does is let out a resigned sigh.

"You know I prefer to be the carefree person more than anyone else," she replies, her voice lacking its usual spark. The lighthearted atmosphere begins to fade away as I hear the gravity in her words.

"But we haven't talked about how this situation has affected you mentally," she continues, her tone shifting. The weight of her statement sinks in, and my smile instantly vanishes, replaced by a heavy sense of dread.

"What are you talking about? I am perfectly fine," I reply, my voice slightly defensive as I divert my gaze from her piercing stare. I can’t afford to let her see my uncertainty; if I lock eyes with her for too long, I fear she will see right through me. So, I employ a diversion—a less obvious tactic I secretly put in my playbook on how to distract your best friend.

"Really? Then why aren’t you looking at me anymore?" Mia counters, her tone sharp and teasing, catching me off guard and exposing the flimsy nature of my excuse.

"Don’t get ahead of yourself. I was just looking at my hands; I thought I felt something crawling on them," I mutter, forcing a blank expression as I turn back to face her. It’s a pathetic excuse, a weak attempt to deflect, but pride pushes me to maintain my facade.

"Oh, really?" she says, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. The silence stretches between us as I hold her gaze, our eyes locked in a silent battle. I refuse to yield, to show any crack in my composure. After what feels like an eternity, she finally breaks the stare, letting out a resigned sigh. Inwardly, I celebrate this small victory, but the relief is fleeting as I rise to my feet, eager to shift the focus.

"I’m making pancakes," I announce casually, hoping my nonchalance will cause her to abandon whatever thoughts swirled in her mind.

"I... heard you, l..last night"