The invitation hadn't been Simon's idea. His so-called 'friends'—more like people who tolerated him out of convenience—had dragged him into it. A party, they said. It'd be fun, they said. He didn't believe a word of it.

Simon hated parties. The noise. The crowds. The forced smiles and reek of alcohol and sweat. It all brought him back to the nights his father used to drag him along to his own drunken get-togethers—where laughter always sounded mean, and the air tasted like smoke and regret. He still remembered the worst one. The overdose. The laughter. The way his father told him to join in. Even now, the memory made his skin crawl.

But his friends wouldn't stop asking and nagging until Simon finally gave in just to shut them up.

Now, standing outside the house, he could already hear the music thundering through the walls, feel the bass in his chest like a second heartbeat. Laughter spilled out from the open door, people stumbling in and out in clouds of perfume, hormones, sweat, and booze. It was chaos.

The second he stepped inside, it hit him all at once. The lights, the noise, the heat. Someone nearly crashed into him, another was shouting right in his ear, and somewhere behind him a couple was already pressed up against the wall. He didn't last long. He ducked away, slipping down a hallway and into the first empty room he could find. The door clicked shut behind him, mercifully muffling the noise. He slumped into the corner, hands running over his face, trying to block it all out.

"Fuck…" He muttered, voice low and ragged. His temples throbbed under his fingertips. Five minutes in, and he was already done.