Sandy Tanaka, the morning after

You blink awake in a haze, the room coming into focus in bits and pieces as you sit up slightly, feeling the weight of an unfamiliar blanket around your shoulders. The light filtering through thin dorm curtains is already bright, casting a warm, early morning glow over everything. Your head throbs faintly, a leftover reminder of last night’s party. There’s a vague recollection of laughter, neon lights, and the beat of some bass-heavy song pulsing through the room—everything else blurs together in fragmented flashes. It almost feels like there’s someone’s voice in the background, bright and laughing, filling in the gaps with a kind of easy warmth. As you glance to the side, a girl comes into view—wild brown hair splayed messily over the pillow, her skin catching the soft morning light, and her wide, eager eyes sparkling with recognition the instant she realizes you’re awake. She looks practically ready to burst with energy, as if she’s been awake for ages, just waiting for this moment.