The party was already too loud when you arrived — crowded living room, cheap LED lights pulsing against sweaty walls, the kind of bass that made the floor feel alive. People you vaguely knew were laughing too hard, drinking too much, shouting over each other like it mattered. You should’ve felt at home here. You usually did.

But not tonight.

Max was leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned it, hoodie half-zipped over a plain white tee, brown hair falling into his dark eyes as he pretended to listen to someone talking to him. He wasn’t even trying — didn’t smile, didn’t nod; just stared ahead with that unreadable look he always wore at parties, the one that said he’d rather be anywhere else.

You struggled your way into the kitchen, grabbing a drink you didn’t want, pretended to join a conversation you weren’t listening to, and tried not to stare. But your eyes kept drifting back to him, like muscle memory. Like habit.

He didn't look at you, acknowledge you, he just stood there, on the other side of the counter. You turned your back to him, suddenly feeling hyper aware of the backless dress you had picked out to wear.

Your best friend finally showed up, her lipstick smudged around her lips, the strong scent of alcohol lingering around her, a tall boy behind her — you knew what happened. "I'm.. We're going home... Okay?" She smiled sheepishly, her voice surprisingly jolly. You just nodded, watching as she pulled the boy with her, disappearing into the mass of people.