Saturday morning arrived, sunlight filtering through the gaps in the blinds. I pried my eyes open, met with a dull, throbbing ache behind my temples – not a full-blown, incapacitating hangover, but the kind that served as a sharp reminder of last night's poor decisions. Gin. Just one glass, I'd told myself. Clearly, one was enough to leave my mouth tasting like stale regret.

"I am slowly becoming an alcoholic" I muttered.

I groaned, rolling onto my side. My fingers fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages from Mateo. No missed calls.

Nothing but the cold, indifferent silence. I was getting pissed I haven't gotten a reply...