22
I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. Loud, incessant ringing—piercing through the quiet atmosphere of my bedroom, drilling into my head. "Oh, God," I mumble, shifting myself so that my pillow is clamped to my ears, trying to drown out the noise. Suddenly, at long last, it stops. Silence. I smile to myself and roll over in bed, letting my muscles relax, my breathing falling back into a steady pattern— And then the ringing starts again. I groan, sitting up in bed, blinking bleary eyes. Sunlight pours in through my windows; it has to be late morning or noon. Shaking my head and running my hands through the unruly mess otherwise known as my hair, I look down at my phone. It sits on my nightstand, ringing and vibrating and making all sorts of racket. The screen informs me that the call
- Writer
