What the fuck?” He groaned, squirming heavily as he sat up, his head pounding like a jackhammer. Pressing both hands to his temples, he tried to pry his eyelids open — but they felt like lead weights. When he finally managed to crack them apart, his vision swam in a blur.
“Did those motherfuckers sell me spurious liquor?” he wondered bitterly.
He was no stranger to alcohol — downing two large bottles of whiskey was practically routine. But this? This felt different. His skull throbbed, his mouth tasted like metal, and his body felt as though it had been steamrolled.
“Has my tolerance gone down?” The thought unsettled him. He scoffed — no way. Something wasn’t right.
That wasn’t all. The hotel room looked like a battlefield after a drunken war. Empty bottles were strewn across the floor, some upright, others knocked over like fallen soldiers. Dirty plates cluttered every surface, their crusted remains emitting a foul stench that clung to the air. Leftover food lay scattered in greasy patches, giving the whole room the unmistakable charm of a pigsty.
Janagan sat there, clueless and dazed. His mind strained to piece together fragments of the previous night, but nothing came. Frustrated, he hurriedly reached for his phone, still plugged into the charger. As he extended his arm to grab it, his fingers brushed against something — a white envelope tucked beneath the phone.
Frowning, he picked it up, but before opening it, he instinctively unlocked his phone. Three missed calls stared back at him — two from his wife and one from his daughter.
His heart sank. What the hell happened last night?
He opened the letter curiously and reached for his eyeglasses, which were lying on the bed. Slipping them on, he began to read.
Dear Janagan,
I hope this letter finds you hale and hearty. We had an awesome time with you last night — what a blast! It was incredible catching up after a staggering 30 years. Time just slipped away from us, didn’t it? Somehow, despite mobile phones, social media, and the internet, we still managed to lose touch.
Can you believe it? We walked out of college as graduates in 1995… and only ended up meeting again in 2025!
Well, that’s not the main reason we are writing this letter.
We owe you an apology — for two things. First, we spiked your drink last night. And second, we left the room in a mess for you to clean up.
Also, we’ve always felt — unanimously, I might add — that your actions during the final week of our last year weren’t exactly in good spirit.
We were friends, and we believed in having each other’s backs through thick and thin. But that time… you didn’t stand with us in solidarity. Instead, you grabbed a pair of scissors and threatened to stab anyone who dared come near you to shave your moustache.
You won that day — not because we gave up, but because no one was willing to risk missing their final exams over it.
Every final-year student shaved his moustache, but you refused. Sure, you may have had your reasons — but to us, it didn’t quite align with the spirit of good friendship.
What we did to you last night? Well, we’re not exactly sorry about it.
Oh, and by the way — we recorded the whole thing. Don’t worry, we promise never to upload it on social media. That video will go to the grave with us.
You’re absolutely entitled to take your revenge — if we ever cross paths again… maybe in another 30 years or even in our next lives.
Until then…
Goodbye,
Your ’90s Friends
Janagan jumped out of bed, heart racing, and dashed to the bathroom. He flicked on the light and stared into the mirror.
His moustache — gone.
His eyebrows — gone.
But the real horror? A clean, bald strip ran straight down the middle of his head, splitting his hair perfectly in two — like Moses himself had parted the Red Sea right across his scalp.
Janagan blinked in disbelief.
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