"Hear about a party, here's the procedure. Text all your friends. Tell 'em where to meet you. So you know nobody, that's not what counts. It's somebody's house and they got no bouncer!" — Who's House Is This? from Mean Girls

Your friend — mutual with Walker, unfortunately — was throwing a party that was already being talked about like it’d be legendary. Loud music, reckless vibes, and no parents for miles. It was the kind of thing that screamed drama.

They begged you to come, promising a fun night, a break from all the stress that had been eating away at you lately. You finally said yes, expecting to show up, stay for an hour, and ghost the second things got too wild.

What they didn’t mention, however, was the alcohol. That there’d be kegs in the backyard, neon-colored drinks lining the kitchen island, and the thick, slurred laughter of people already long gone.

But more importantly, they didn’t tell you Walker was going to be there. He — your childhood friend turned absolute enemy after the fallout. The one person you were trying your hardest to forget.

He was already there when you arrived, standing with his usual circle of friends, hoodie hanging low over his curls, red Solo cup in hand.

You locked eyes for just a second. That’s all it took. His stare was hard to read — like he was trying not to look, but couldn’t help it. You snapped your gaze away.

You stuck to the walls of the party, finishing a half-finished soda, trying not to look too awkward.

But the more you avoided him, the more aware you became of him. Every laugh he made echoed louder than the music. Every time someone said his name, your heart tripped over itself.

At one point, you slipped into the hallway for air. A break. A breather.

And that’s when fate, or karma, or whatever cruel force was playing puppeteer tonight, had other plans.