The Forever of Ella and Micha

light, even though I’m hungover. I don’t regret what happened, although it would have been nice if we were sober. The feeling is strange, but maybe that means I’m getting better at dealing with life.
    The living room is trashed, beer bottles all over the floor and coffee table, and there’s an empty Bacardi bottle on the table, along with scattered poker cards. Getting a garbage bag from the kitchen drawer, I rack my brain for where my phone and purse are. I remember being at the club, Micha playing on stage, and then coming here and his hands all over me. My eyelids drift shut as I remember every moment of it.
    “Only One” by Yellowcard begins playing from somewhere in the room and my eyes snap open. With my ears perked up, I follow the sound, which guides me to the couch. Under a frayed throw pillow is my phone. My eyebrows scrunch as I scoop it up, not recognizing the ringtone. When I glance at the screen, however, it makes sense.
    I answer the phone. “Did you change my ringtone for you?”
    His laughter fills the other end of the line. “It seemed fitting this morning.”
    “It seems like you’re trying to send me a message through your notes and your song choice.” I collect a bottle from off the top of the television and drop it into the bag. “You know I’m not mad about last night, right? I was sober enough that I can remember stuff… You don’t have to feel guilty.”
    “I don’t feel guilty,” he assures me over banging in the background. “I’m glad last night happened. The note and the song were my way of sending you a message.”
    Bending down, I pick up an empty beer carton and toss it into the bag, then tie it shut and drop it outside the front door, leaving the door open to grab my purse, which is near the television. “What message?”
    “That’s for you to figure out.”
    “And what if I can’t figure it out?”
    “You will,” he responds. “But whether or not you say it out loud is a whole other story.”
    He’s right. I already have it figured out, but saying it out loud is something I can’t quite do.
    “You’re being very cryptic.” Stepping outside into the warm sunshine, I shut the front door and drag the garbage bag down the stairs with the bottles clinking together. At the bottom, my eyes scan the parking lot. “How am I supposed to get home?”
    “You could stay there until I get home,” Micha offers. “Or better yet, you could just move in.”
    My lungs compress, reducing the flow of oxygen as his heavy words crumble my mood. “I have to get home. I have a class tonight.”
    “Since when do you have class at night?” he questions. “Are you just saying that because of my little moving-in remark?”
    I don’t bother picking up the bag as I trudge toward the Dumpster and heave it inside. “No, I really have class,” I lie. “I’ll call you a little bit later, okay? I need to find a ride home.”
    “Alright.” His tone is clipped. “I’ll talk to you later, I guess.”
    He hangs up before I can and it leaves me feeling hollow, like a part of me has been removed. Shaking the sensation away, I punch Lila’s number into the keypad.
    “Well, look who decided to finally wake up,” she answers with humor radiating from her voice. “Did you do the walk of shame?”
    “Micha and I didn’t have sex, Lila,” I respond in a snippy voice and then, feeling terrible, apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m just hungover or something. And I need to get home and lay down, but I don’t have a ride.”
    “You could take the bus.” She pops a bubble into the phone. “Although I wouldn’t recommend it.”
    “How did you get home?” I press my fingertips to the brim of my nose as my headache from hell surges.
    “Ethan gave me a ride.” A door slams and I hear keys hit the counter. “I was actually just out to lunch with Parker.”
    “I thought you were done with him.”
    “Hey, he insisted.”
    I start toward the exit that is situated near a brick wall. “Alright, I’ll track down a bus.”
    “God luck with that. And watch out for the licker,” she jokes with an evil laugh. “Keep your elbows tucked in and stay away from the back of the bus.”
    “Ha-ha, you’re a freaking riot,” I say derisively. “Talk to you later.”
    I drag my exhausted legs toward the Starbucks at the corner of the street. After I have some caffeine in my system, my brain turns back on. But by the time I reach the apartment and recollect what made me drink that