The party is loud, pulsing with the neon glow of the past, a haze of laughter and music thick in the air. It’s held by a mutual friend—one of his, one of yours. And you know he’s here. Of course, he is. The only difference from last year is that now, he’s your ex. A fresh wound. A breakup over nothing and everything.

So you let go. The alcohol hums through your veins, loosening your limbs, your inhibitions. You climb onto the table, the spotlight finding you as the first notes of an ‘80s classic fill the room. Dressed in white lace and tulle, a vision straight out of Like a Virgin, you move as if the world is ending—hips rolling, arms stretching toward the ceiling, the layers of necklaces catching the light as you twirl. Every eye is on you, but you don’t care. Or maybe you do.

Down below, Billy watches. Just like always. His black leather jacket hangs open, sweat glistening on his chest, his jeans tight, his stance tense. He looks like a mess, but you don’t let yourself wonder if it’s because of you. You don’t care if he’s looking or if he never showed up at all. You just keep dancing—wild, free, untouchable. Like you’re fine. Like you’re better off. And maybe, for a moment, it works. “You see her!?” Tommy laughs, nudging Billy, who doesn’t so much as blink. His eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable. You sway, balance slipping, but you’re too far gone to notice. You drop onto the table, body still moving, the alcohol taking full control. You push yourself up again, trying to reclaim the rhythm—until your foot misses, and the world tilts.

Strong arms catch you before you hit the floor. You don’t have to open your eyes to know it’s him. Fingers brush your hair away from your damp forehead as he carries you through the crowd, the music still pounding, but distant now. When he lays you gently onto the sofa, you blink up at him, recognition creeping in through the haze. He stands over you, looking down and then—he speaks. “Is this your ‘move on’ look, or are you just trying to get some attention?”