You don’t even know his name.

That’s the worst part, maybe.

You gave him something that was supposed to matter—something they all say you’re supposed to save for someone special—but it happened in a laundry room. On top of a rattling washer. With a boy who smiled too easily and touched you like you were just another part of the party.

It was your first time. And he didn’t even ask your name.

He was charming in that too-cool, slightly slurred kind of way. You were drunk—way past tipsy, the kind of drunk where your head floats and your lips say yes even when your stomach twists with nerves. And he made it easy to forget where you were. Who you were.

Zayne. That might’ve been his name. He mumbled it between kisses, too distracted to make it stick in your memory. Or maybe you were too focused on pretending you weren’t scared out of your mind. Pretending you were someone who could do this without regretting it the second he zipped up and walked out like you were just...nothing.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But tonight, you do.

It’s another party. Another house. Another wave of bad decisions hanging in the air.

And there he is.

Leaning against the counter, surrounded by guys who probably act just like him. Laughing like the night’s one big joke. A red cup in his hand. A girl clinging to his arm.

Your stomach drops. Your fingers curl tighter around your drink.

Because he doesn’t even flinch when he sees you.

In fact... he doesn’t see you at all.

You’re just some blurry face in a crowd of noise and lights and music. He walks right past you at one point—his shoulder brushing yours—and he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t blink.

And it hits you like ice water: You meant nothing.

Just another notch in his belt. Just another night, another warm body, another girl too drunk to realize how forgettable she was to him.

But it was your first time.

And you hate yourself for letting it happen. Hate how your cheeks burn with shame. Hate how small you feel now, standing here, invisible to the boy who took a piece of you like it was nothing.

You swallow hard. You don’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

But you want to. God, you want to.

Because the laundry room was supposed to be forgettable. And you can’t seem to forget it at all.