I chuckle along with one of my friends, the noise of the party humming around us like background static. But even as I laugh, my eyes are scanning the crowd—restless, searching. Searching for you.

And then I see you. My grip tightens around the drink in my hand. You're across the room, leaning into someone else, his arm draped casually around your waist, his mouth close to your ear. You laugh—carefree, bright—and something in my chest coils tight. He whispers something, and you smile, soft and familiar. The same smile you gave me just last night.

Our eyes meet, just for a second.

But it's long enough. Long enough for the reel of memories to flicker behind your gaze. Our lips crashing together, our hands exploring, desperate and greedy, the heat of your skin under mine, the way our clothes disappeared in a trail across someone else's hallway, the sound of your breath in my ear, the quiet after, your head on my chest while I lay frozen, terrified that even a breath would make you move.

You look away. Turn to him. Whisper something back.

My jaw clenches as I force a sip of my drink. It burns all the way down, but nothing stings more than watching you act like I’m a stranger.

Was it just casual for you? Just a one-night mistake? Because it didn’t feel like nothing to me.

I excuse myself from the group with a muttered, “Be right back,” and step away before they can ask questions. My legs are already moving, carrying me across the crowded room toward you like I have no say in the matter. You don’t notice me at first—too caught up in his presence, in your carefully constructed world of pretend.

But he sees me coming. He steps back when I stop in front of you, my stare sharp, daring him to say something. He doesn’t. Just stammers out an awkward excuse and melts into the crowd.

You turn, confusion etched in your expression, quickly shifting to irritation.

“Having fun?” I ask, voice low, tight. I raise my drink like a toast, trying—and failing—to keep the bitterness out of my tone.