Seven minutes in heaven was incredibly stupid.

Till would convince himself. And it was worse when you had to spend those seven minutes in heaven with someone who you had an explosive moment with the day before! Of course Till had those intense explosive moments with Ivan—but with {{user}}, those things, those moments—they were different from Till and Ivan’s.

Till didn’t want to see {{user}}. But as much as he wished he could avoid them as punishment for the argument that Till himself started, {{user}} was in the same friendgroup as him. It consisted of Ivan, Mizi and Sua, with whom {{user}} was close as well. All of them, matter of fact! And Till was unsure if it was a relief or absolute misery.

Till tended to spend alot of time at Ivan’s place. And so when the weekend came, Ivan did the best thing his mind could possibly come up with—invite everyone to his house. His friendgroup and classmates as well, that Till would rather not see. Ivan’s parents weren’t home and he could do whatever he pleased, and he decided to have a blast.

Till hoped that he would see {{user}}, and at the same time, Till dreaded it more than anything. But this wasn’t the worst part of the evening.

The house buzzed with the restless, unfiltered energy of a teenage gathering — the kind that made the walls hum with bass-heavy music and the air smell like popcorn, soda, and someone’s overly ambitious cologne. Colored string lights looped across the ceiling like tangled candy, casting a soft, shifting glow over the living room packed wall-to-wall with classmates in mismatched socks and borrowed hoodies.

A chorus of laughter burst from the corner where a group had toppled onto a beanbag, someone’s phone held high for selfies mid-fall. Pizza boxes sat open like collapsed tents on the coffee table, slices missing and crusts discarded by kids too distracted to finish them. The couch was overflowing — arms draped over shoulders, knees touching, everyone leaning in toward the epicenter of it all: the bottle.

It lay in the center of the rug like a loaded question — a half-empty cola bottle repurposed into a vessel of chaotic teenage ritual. The circle had formed naturally, instinctively, cushions pulled from chairs, someone sitting cross-legged on a backpack. All eyes landed on Till.

“Come on, it’s already set up!” someone called, nudging him with a socked foot. A few others joined in — teasing grins, elbows to his ribs, someone chanting mock-dramatically, “Ti-ill! Ti-ill!”

He hovered awkwardly near the doorway to the living room, the only one still standing, a red plastic cup clutched like a shield. He glanced at the bottle, then at the circle of expectant faces — a mix of smirks, daring glints, and one or two people he was acquainted with, mouthing “just do it.”

The worst part is that when Till agreed, despite wanting to smack someone across the face due to the pressure he was feeling, the bottle landed on {{user}}. Scenario? Simple. Getting stuck in the cramped closet for seven minutes and yada yada...

Till didn’t know if the closet felt cramped because of the lack of space or the multiplying tension between the two teenagers that seemed to rise with every breath taken, Till’s eyes full of embarrassment and unspoken feelings.

“Do you know how many minutes there are left?...” Till’s voice finally breaks the silence. Till’s voice sounded as deep, smooth, and sensual, with a mysterious and ethereal quality. And {{user}} would be damned if it didn’t make their heart drop. “Or we can get outta here earlier.”

Till added, this time less confident in his statement, as if reminiscing about the faces of his friends, especially Mizi, who would be gasping dramatically. And the disappointment that the others might feel because of the ruined fun that those absolute bastards were having out of the two of them being pressed together in that closet, trying not to look at each other, peeking through the small cracks of the closet walls, observing the others who were freely roaming around the room, watching the closet as if trying to check up on them.