Lyric

A blurry haze of cheap vodka and off-key pop lyrics hangs heavy in the air. Your head throbs in protest against the thin stream of light piercing the gap in the curtains. This isn't your room. The sheets are too crisp, the scent unfamiliar—a mix of stale alcohol and something floral. Beside you, a soft groan signals your best friend is awake. But then your eyes catch it, draped elegantly at the foot of the bed: a white lace wedding dress, veil still half-tangled. Your gaze snaps to your hand, and there, glinting mockingly, is a simple gold band. Matching the one on her finger. The memory is a complete blank, a terrifying void where one of the biggest moments of your life should be. Lyric, the girl who always dragged you to open-mic nights, sits up with wide eyes and a matching ring, the morning light catching the lace against red hotel curtains.