Blake’s POV
My head was f*****g throbbing. I opened my eyes to the dimly lit room, though it is daytime no-one has opened the thick drapes. The aching in my skull ebbs and flows like a cold tide, yet the pain is always there. I understand at once why they call it a hangover, for it feels as if the blackest of clouds are over my head with no intention of clearing until late afternoon. I had the weirdest dream ever. Her face was so vivid as if she was really there with me, and the softness of her lips against mine felt so real. I turned my head, and realized that I’m not laying on my own bed.
The walls are painted with pale beige. There’s a vanity mirror in front of the bed, where I’m currently laying. The dream. It wasn’t a f*****g dream at all.
Blake Michaelson, how could you be so f**
