Hangover

James woke up because his head was pounding, feeling like a hammer striking repeatedly against the front of his skull and sending a constant ring through his ears. The pain was excruciating, and he tossed and turned in his bed, the sheets already thrown wildly about from his midnight thrashing. He knew he had to get out of bed, to get some water to ease his pain, but he hardly wanted to move. He had drunk far too much the night before. He could hardly remember getting home.

But the memory of what he had done at the bar was nearly enough to sober him up. His oldest friend, Samantha, was the one who had taken him out to the bar after a particularly bad break up - had encouraged him to drink and be merry and to seek out new ladies in whom to forget his pain. And in return, he had turned to her. Had told her how he wished that she would let him love her - how he had always lusted for her, and had only chosen to confide in other women because he knew that he was not good enough for her, and that a woman like her could never fall for a man like him.

They were not his words. It had been the drink talking to her, not him. Supplying words that had no basis in reality, and that he could not understand how they had come to his lips. He could only imagine how uncomfortable he must have made her with his words, and he feared that perhaps he would scare her away from him. He could not afford to lose her as a friend. He had known her for too long, confined too heavily in her. She was always the one who was there for him when he needed it, whether he actively wanted it or not.

She was there for him at every poor decision, every painful consequence, and every falter. She was his shoulder to lean on, and the light in every darkness he faced. He knew that as long as he could turn to her, he would be able to make it through anything that life threw at him, and that he could figure out what to do next.

He didn't remember when he had gotten out of bed. He didn't remember when the glass of water had gotten into his hand, or when he had managed to drink half of its contents. And he especially didn't remember when he had pulled out his phone, pulled up Samantha's contact, and stared at her photo.

Had the words really belonged to the alcohol? Or had they been his words all along? Words that he had felt deep down inside, but never been willing to acknowledge? Or perhaps that he had not had the strength to acknowledge?

The phone was to his ear, ringing, before he even realized that he had dialed her number. He heard her voice on the other end after three rings, sleepy. He had clearly woken her up.

"Samantha," he said, almost too quietly for her to hear. "I'm sorry about last night. I was drunk, I wan't thinking. But... I think I needed to say it. I think I've been wrong. I think... I think that all along, I've loved you, and I just didn't know it."