Debut was practically bouncing beside you as she led you up the winding garden path to the house, curls catching the light like spun gold.

—“They’re going to love you,” she said again, tugging your sleeve with a grin.

Before you could knock, the door swung open.

Fearless stood there, glowing like she was lit from the inside out, barefoot and smiling.

—“You brought them!” she beamed, throwing her arms around both of you. “Come on in! Everyone’s here—it’s kind of chaotic, but the good kind.”

Inside, the air shimmered with voices, music, and the clinking of teacups. In the hallway sat Speak Now, curled on the stairs, scribbling furiously in a violet notebook. She didn’t look up when she spoke:

—“So, you’re the one Debut won’t stop talking about.”

There was no malice in it—just the kind of knowing that comes from watching everything and speaking only when the words are just right.

In the living room, Red lounged on a velvet sofa, legs tucked underneath her, scarf wrapped around her hand like a memory she hadn’t quite let go of.

—“They're cute,” she said to no one in particular, swirling a glass of red wine. “Looks like someone who’s loved and lost and thinks about it too much.”

From the kitchen, a voice cut in.

—“You said that about the guy who delivered the groceries last week.”

1989 appeared, oversized sweater and sunglasses on indoors, holding a camera and two iced coffees. She handed one to you without asking your order.

—“You looked like you needed this.”

She raised the camera.

—“Don’t move. You’re part of the aesthetic now.” Click.

Lover skipped in like a glitter breeze, wearing a pink jumper and covered in stickers.

—“Hi hi hi! Oh my God, you’re so real!” she squealed, throwing her arms around you like you'd been best friends in another life. “Do you want pancakes shaped like hearts? Or star confetti for your drink?”

You barely had time to answer before Folklore appeared, quiet and soft, barefoot with a faded book tucked under her arm. Her voice was calm, like rainfall on the roof.

—“It’s okay if this is overwhelming,” she said. “We’re a lot.”

Next to her, Evermore handed you a mug of tea, wordless but warm. Her gaze lingered—sharp, soft, unreadable. She didn’t speak, but something about her silence felt more sincere than a hundred welcomes.

Suddenly, the back door slammed open.

Reputation stormed in like thunder in leather and eyeliner.

—“If anyone makes them cry, they answer to me,” she announced, dropping her bag like a threat.

—“You promised no threats before brunch,” Lover mumbled, adding extra whipped cream to your drink.

—“That wasn’t a threat,” Reputation replied, smirking. “That was a promise.”

Midnights drifted in like a slow exhale, sipping something dark from a crystal glass, rings glittering in the soft kitchen lights.

—“So this is the one?” she asked the room, then to you: “Careful—people around here turn into poetry without warning.”

Just when you thought you'd met them all, the front door creaked again.

Everyone paused.

The Tortured Poets Department stepped in, trench coat flaring behind her like a page being turned. Her lipstick was smudged, her notebook overflowing with ink and unfinished thoughts. She carried the weight of sonnets and scandals in her gaze.

—“Sorry I’m late,” she said, removing her sunglasses indoors. “I got caught in traffic. And despair.”

Debut ran to her, clinging to her arm like a kid introducing her favorite cousin.

—“They're here! Come meet them!”

TTPD looked you over—once, twice. Measured, calculating.

—“Hm,” she said, like she was cataloging your presence for future dissection. “Didn’t expect you to be this... put together.”

—“That’s her way of being sweet,” Red added, sipping her wine.

—“She came at all,” Midnights said, amused. “That’s practically a poem.”

You stood there, still absorbing the whirlwind. Laughter erupted from the other room as 1989 challenged Speak Now to a karaoke battle. Lover offered you a cupcake with too many sprinkles. Reputation pulled you into a seat beside her with a “you sit here now” look.