Madrid; in the living room of an indifferent flat -his indifferent flat- in a neighbourhood full of bohemian and nocturnal souls, on the sofa, he woke up like every other day, but today with a throbbing headache, a dry and metallic taste of regret in his mouth, and a feeling of nausea.

All was darkness and silence, the room seeming to absorb the sighs of its lone occupant. The faint sunlight filtering through the old blinds cut him like a knife. Every beat of his racing heart was a hammer pounding against his skull. The vasodilatation caused by the alcohol consumed the night before had increased the blood flow to his brain, an inflammatory response for which he was now paying with an excruciating headache. His stomach, irritated by the excess alcohol, twisted in a mixture of nausea and hunger, an internal battle between the desire to empty and the desire to fill. A throbbing reminder of his night’s excess.

He crawled from the couch to the floor, his body feeling every one of his years and every decision he had made the night before. The apartment, a reflection of his life, was tidy and clean, but not in a way that would encourage anyone to move in. The smell was something else. There was a fragile balance between chaos and control in his life. The walls, decorated with pictures he usually bought on second-hand apps, reflected distant and unknown places, adding to the silent judgement that returned to him as he walked. He made his way as best he could to the bathroom, where he found himself again in front of the mirror with that stranger: bloodshot eyes, pale and dehydrated skin, the image of self-destruction.

He undressed and, without showering, dressed again, slowly, with movements that caused a constant throbbing in his head. An empty bottle on the living room table, of a brew he never used to drink, was a silent witness to the previous night, the memory of which had dissolved into a dark void. In the kitchen, he tried to calm his stomach with coffee, but the dark liquid only served to further agitate his already turbulent interior.

Anxiety began to envelop him, as it had so many times before: an invisible snake squeezing his chest. What had he done? Who had he seen? The fragments of memory were unable to form a meaningful story. He remembered the laughter of others, the glow of bar lights, glances from above, and the feeling of a fleeting freedom that was scorned by others who shared the scene. Other than that, nothing, an abyss in his memory that frightened him.

He needed air, to escape the four walls that were closing in on him. His neighbourhood greeted him with its usual movement, indifferent to his personal torment. The streets were full of people going about their lives, oblivious to the battle he was waging within.

He walked aimlessly, each step an attempt to escape himself. The bars vaguely reminded him of the night before. The haze of alcohol had obscured the details, leaving only the emotions: a moment of euphoria followed by a growing sense of emptiness. He remembered talking to someone, but who? What had he said? The uncertainty was torture.

He stopped outside a bar that looked particularly familiar – had he been there last night? Blurry images of smiling faces and raised glasses flashed through his mind, but none of them stuck together enough to form a coherent story. He decided to return to his apartment.

Back there, the silence hit him again like a wave. He sat on the couch, closed his eyes and tried to piece together the night. But there were only fragments, pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together.

The phone rang: a scream in the silence. Why can’t landlines be put on vibrate? He considered not answering, but curiosity overcame fear. It was an unknown number. With a trembling hand, he answered the call.

«Hello» – His voice sounded strange, hoarse, in his own ears.

A voice on the other end, unfamiliar but inexplicably familiar, broke the silence. «You left us worried yesterday, you suddenly disappeared, are you OK?»

Relief and fear intertwined in his chest. Someone remembered what he couldn’t. «Yes, I’m… I’m fine. I’m sorry, I don’t remember much from last night.»

There was a pause. «We need to talk. There are things I think you need to know.»

«Who are you?» he asked. The call ended.

The man sat back, looking around him again. The story of that night remained hidden, a riddle wrapped in the mystery of his own mind. The end of that story remained open, a blank page waiting to be written.

With the hangover still haunting his body and soul, he knew he would have to face what he had forgotten. But for now he could only wait, lost in the uncertainty of his own story, a story yet to be discovered.

Let’s write this blank page.