It started as a joke.

Van had called it “Doomcoming” after someone muttered that prom season would’ve been happening back home. A stupid name, born out of frostbitten boredom and the kind of humor you only find when you’ve run out of hope. Someone dug out old uniforms, others made masks out of bark and feathers. Shauna found a handful of crushed berries they didn’t usually touch, said they could make a drink. “To take the edge off.”

Natalie didn’t want to go. Not really. But you gave her a look earlier in the day, that sideways glance you always did when you were trying to talk her into something without words. And for some reason, she’d caved. Again.

So now she stood in the middle of a candlelit cabin in a dress that didn’t fit, wearing boots instead of heels, with her hands shoved in her pockets and a cup of something purple in her grip.

The drink was bitter. Sharp. She didn’t like how it coated her tongue. But she kept sipping.

The music was just humming and clapping and the dull thud of feet against wood. Misty danced like she was in a trance. Taissa spun Van in slow, lazy circles. Shauna sat still with her eyes too wide. Jackie was already drunk, throwing pine needles in the air like they were confetti.

Natalie looked for you.

You were standing by the window, watching the candlelight flicker against the snow outside. You wore something loose and patched together, flowers tangled into your hair by Lottie, probably. You looked like some kind of feral prom queen.