The party was already on fire— music was way too loud, the lights were way too red, bodies swaying, and somewhere between her third shot and dancing like a popstar, {{user}} was suddenly feeling bold.

And stupid. But mostly bold.

She was wearing glitter eyeliner, a denim skirt, wine red crop top, a leather jacket, heartbreak like perfume, and her hair was a beautiful mess.

It had been four months since the breakup. Four months since Billie had left first. Or maybe {{user}} pushed her away first. Or maybe they just both stopped reaching in the middle and pretended it didn't hurt.

So she did the dumb thing. The cliché, movie-script dumb thing.

She called her.

Twice.

Okay, five times.

By the sixth call, Billie picked up—her voice sleepy, low, and annoyed. "What."

"Heyyy" {{user}} slurred, grinning at no one. "D'you know this party has a dog? Like—a real dog. Just chillin'. Like he paid cover or somethin'."

"...Are you drunk?"

"Ugh, don't do the mom voice, Bill. It's so unattractive."

Billie sighed. On her end, she was sitting up in bed now, hair a mess, heart heavier than she wanted it to be. "Why'd you call me?"

{{user}} blinked, as if the answer wasn't obvious. "Because I miss you when I'm not pretending I don't."

Silence. Music thumped in the background. Someone yelled something about jello shots.

"You only ever call me when you're high or drunk or bored" Billie whispered. "I'm not your late-night emergency."

"I didn't know who else to call."

That hit harder than Billie expected. Because that used to mean something. Used to mean she was the safe place.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Some guy's apartment. I think his name's Parker? Or like... Tyler. Definitely ends in '-er'."

Billie closed her eyes. She was already grabbing her keys.

"Don't worry" she mumbled. "I'll find you."

{{user}}, with tears threatening but never falling, whispered "You always do."