Fifty-Seven

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"We only said goodbye with words. I died a hundred times"

 I died a hundred times"

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Fücking hell, my head. Groggily, I lift my head to better view my surroundings, squinting to block out the harshness of the sun's rays. Immediately, I realise I'm on the opposite end of my bed, fully clothed, and I can just smell the stench of alcohol emanating from my pores.

How much did I drink last night?

Getting up slowly, my body aches from the drunken injuries I've probably obtained whilst clumsily walking into furniture, and I reach blindly around my body for my phone.

4:12pm.

Christ, how long have I been sleeping for?

That's not the only thing I notice from the home screen. It appears that I have a message from an unrecognisable number.

 It appears that I have a message from an unrecognisable number

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Suddenly, everything comes flooding back. The phone call - to him. I called Harry, and despite not being able to speak to him, I felt compelled to stay on the line to him. I felt drawn in, and despite no words being exchanged, it was one of the most intimate moments I've encountered. That is until it ended.

I read over the text until I'm satisfied that I can take nothing more from it. I mean, surely it wouldn't be him? But it could be.

Dialling the number, I listen in a state of dread for the moment the other person picks up, and when it finally answers, a woman speaks.

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