The party is buzzing around you, lights flashing, music pulsing in time with the beats of your heart. You’re standing near the door, leaning against the wall, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. The loud laughter and chatter mix with the sharp notes of the music, but it’s all muffled, like you’re in your own little worđ.
You weren’t even sure why you came. Peer pressure? Boredom? The stupid, aching hope that maybe — maybe — he’d be here too.
You used to talk. Maybe not every day, but enough. Shared group projects. Shared jokes during late study nights. Shared playlists, once. There was a time when seeing his name light up your phone felt like gravity pulling you back to yourself.
But then something shifted. Not a fight. Not a falling-out. Just distance. A slow, drifting silence that neither of you reached across.
His figure is hard to miss, even in the throng of people. His messy blonde hair, the way his shoulders fill out his shirt just right. You’re unsure if he’s noticed you yet, but you’re certain that you’ve noticed him a thousand times over.
He was the kind of popular that didn’t need effort. The kind where people just naturally circled around him, waiting for a smile, a joke, a glance. Not a jock. Not loud. Just golden. The boy who answered questions with ease in class. The boy who laughed with professors. The boy who always smelled like rain and notebook paper and left his sleeves pushed up like he had nothing to hide.
You caught him mid-laugh, head tipped back, hand wrapped around a red solo cup like it belonged there. His friends buzzed around him, orbiting like stars. But your gaze snagged on the way his smile faded when he wasn’t being watched. Like something about all this didn’t sit right. Like maybe he was tired of shining all the time.
Your breath catches when his eyes suddenly find yours from across the room. For a split second, time feels like it slows down. You feel that pulse of connection — that thrum that fills the space between you both. But before you can register what’s happening, he looks away, his focus shifting back to the people around him.
It hurts more than you thought it would.
You’re not sure if you’re relieved or frustrated when he doesn’t approach you. The part of you that’s too afraid to say anything finds a twisted comfort in it. If he doesn’t say anything, then you don’t have to worry about the crushing weight of his rejection.
The bass is shaking the floorboards.
The air smells like vape smoke, spilled soda, and summer sweat. You told yourself you’d only stay ten minutes. Long enough to be seen, to smile at the right people. Long enough to forget you ever cared.
But the crowd got too thick. The walls too tight. So you slipped away, up the stairs, turning the brass handle on the first door you found.
It’s a bedroom.
Quiet. Dim. The kind of space that doesn’t ask questions. You lean back against the door and exhale.
And then—
“Didn’t think you were the hiding type.”
You look up. Shit.
Newt. Sitting on the windowsill like he’s part of the furniture, legs drawn up, drink in hand, half-lit by the hallway glow that spills in behind you.
“Didn’t plan to stay here. Got dragged. Like always.”
Silence falls again, but it’s not empty.
It’s that kind of silence where everything that wasn’t said presses in too loud. The room feels too full, even with just the two of you. You glance toward the hallway, but you don’t leave.
“You can stay. I don’t mind.”