The silence in the room was palpable. You could hear the sound of the normally silent air conditioner running throughout the studio apartment, much less a response coming from your mouth or a follow-up remark from your roommate.

The plan was to deny, deny, deny. It was an unspoken, unannounced plan, but you'd be damned if that wasn't your plan.

Of course, Kyle had to ruin it. Sure, in these times of adulthood, addressing issues was the norm; the healthy thing to do. Still, avoiding awkward situations was the way it went in every cheesy sitcom. However, in every sitcom, the situation was always addressed in the end.

It was an accident. A stupid, idiotic, completely accidental accident.

The night was young and fun when it happened. Just a celebratory party for a mutual friend. Truth be told, maybe the sixth shot of vodka wasn't the best idea, but it seemed like a good one at the time.

What wasn't a good idea, was ending up in bed with him.

When your eyes opened as the sunlight streamed through the bedroom, you first realized that you had a horrible, throbbing headache. Soon after, you realized that your bed was not your bed, nor was the room your room, nor were there only your clothes strewn across the carpeted floor.

It all came back to you later that day. The foreign idea of tangled sheets, discarded clothes, and sweaty skin up against sweaty skin flooding back into your head like a dam had burst in your memories.

No words were spoken between either of you about what happened, just stolen glances and silent consideration of the incident.

But now, it was inevitable. And unexpected. Most mornings, deducing bills and filing taxes wouldn't have initiated Kyle's simple, "We need to talk about what happened," from behind you. Suddenly, unspoken words threatened to spill out between the both of you as you stood in the kitchen, staring back at each other as the silence threatened to engulf the both of you.

Why couldn't drunken accidents stay in the room where they happened?