Noise. Laughter in your ears, clinking glasses talking at you. Drunk college kids knocking over the punch that you’re 80 percent sure has a higher alcohol content than your grandmother’s vodka. Headboards crying for help as they’re assaulted by horny couples.

All of it is heavy. Too heavy. You’ve never liked crowds, never liked all the bumping and jostling that came with college parties. It made your anxiety spike, and you were forgetful enough to leave your holy grail (anxiety medication) at home.

So here you were, standing in a lonely corner by the lightswitches, staring into a red solo cup full of water like it’ll have anything interesting to say while it glares back at you, judging you for even agreeing to come to this party. And just when you’re about to say screw it–

“{{user}}!”

The sound makes you whimper inside. Oliver, better known as Ollie, is your boyfriend and the supposed perpetrator of all your anxiety-related problems. You’re pretty sure–no, certain, that he knows you hate parties, hate crowds, hate noise, but he’s too self-absorbed to care. For all the worth a trophy has, in his eyes, you’re about equal. Just “look pretty and act sweet.”

“Come try these drinks, cupcake,” he calls, his affection faked. It sounds more like a command than a request, one you’ll probably get in trouble for later for not following.