The music’s bass faintly reached the bathroom you had found and stowed yourself in. Hiccups filling the silence, the remnants of your previous breakdown. You would’ve never came here hadn’t it been for your friend who begged you the week before, eventually giving in and here you were. Having one too many shots, you lost count, people just kept handing them to you, reaching them to you in the sea of people and you cluelessly taken it. A lightweight, you were.

During your one travel to the bathroom, you encountered couples in passionate love making, at least four people vomiting onto the carpeted floors, and tripped over what felt like dozens of beer cans and solo cups. It was making you nauseous, the countless shots you had coming back in full spin. You’d never thought a bathroom would be such a safe haven until now—a whole different world, away from the music and people and drinks.

Once finding the bathroom, you immediately jumped onto the toilet, bile burning in your throat and came out without your permission, the sloshing sound echoing in the empty bathroom. Your heartbeat throbbed in your ears along with a ringing sensation. You had no clue where your friend was, they left after a meaningless “I’ll find you later” and left. You haven’t seen a familiar face since. The thought makes you groan out of regret, having enough energy to scoot away from the toilet and lean against the cold marble wall. Taking a moment to breathe.

God, you hated this. This party. Your friend who ditched you in a snap. The music. It was getting to your head, luckily it was faint, but it didn’t stop the intensity of the headache you had.

And before you knew it, you were bawling your eyes out, face in your hands—your sobs ricocheting off the walls, as if emphasizing the emptiness in the bathroom, perfectly matching the hollowness you felt within you.

After your third breakdown, you finally flushed the toilet, getting up on wobbly legs and dragged your feet to the mirror, looking at yourself.

Self-disgust.

That’s what you felt when you looked at the face across from you—mascara smudged, glitter across your face, disheveled hair, glossy eyes and red cheeks with a matching rosy red nose from your consistent sniffle. Who knew alcohol made her such a sad drunk??

Before your fourth breakdown, your eyes already getting blurry and watery from the upcoming urge of tears, she shakily fished in your purse for your phone, nimbly grabbing ahold of it and pulled it out, turning it on, the phones screen only flashed your sensitive eyes, blinking away the sting as you opened the contacts application. For some reason, a certain guy friend with the initial of T.K. Popped in your head. He’s what you needed right now.

You were sobbing by the time you hit the call button, falling against the wall and slide all the way down, in a corner of the bathroom farthest from the door, the tears streaming down your cheek as you hoped for dear God Kei would answer at two in the morning.

The call picked up the line and your heart might’ve skipped a beat, with a broken voice, you gently voiced out.

“Ke—Kei..?” You asked in a watery tone. You started crying again, complaining the ache of missing him like a black hole and it was swallowing you whole. You sobbed about ached for him, needing him.

You didn’t hear it but Kei just sighs, but his heart and maybe something—just maybe—something else also ached. Luckily for you, he was up thanks to his crappy sleep schedule. Your sobs hit a certain nerve within him, making him jolt upright.

“What do—are you drunk, {{user}}?!” he breathed, effortlessly, he pushed any annoyances aside that he’d usually have, you needed him, ached for him. He had to be there.

Kei’s grip on his phone goes unnoticed, not aware he was holding it tightly. “{{user}}. Hold on, okay? I’ll be there. Stay. Put.” He ordered—even if you could barely hear him over your own wails. But you did. You always did. He ends the call and Kei gets up, grabbing his car keys and a jacket.

He considers himself a smart man, but you? You just short circuit his mind.