If someone had warned you how disastrous the party would be, you wouldn’t have gone. But you hated parties anyway—the noise, the chaos, the drunken tangle of bodies. Yet here you were, clutching a drink like it might save you.

You didn’t know why you came. Maybe it was Charles and Henry's persistence, or maybe you’d hoped to feel something. Either way, you knew one thing now: this would be your last party.

The music grated, the air was stifling, but still, you found yourself on the dance floor. Maybe it was the alcohol or just the tide of people pulling you in. You pushed through the crowd, aiming for the door, when someone crashed into you.

When you turned, you saw her. Judy Poovey.

She was the opposite of everything you thought you were. Loud, brash, unbothered. She’d always unnerved you, not because she was mean or cruel, but because she was so unashamedly herself. The way she laughed too hard, touched too much, spoke too loudly. You told yourself she was annoying, immature—a bimbo, even—but deep down, she terrified you. She made your heart race in ways you didn’t want to name, and you hated her for it.

She grabbed your hand and pulled you back into the crowd. Her touch sparked something, and you snapped. Angry words spilled out—words you regretted the moment her smile wavered. You’d wanted to hurt her, and you had.

Judy didn’t hesitate. Her drink hit your face, cold and humiliating. Chaos followed, Henry swinging at someone before you stumbled outside into the November air.

You sat on the steps, shivering. For a very long time until a voice broke through.

“Sorry,” she said, though you knew it wasn’t her fault.

“But you were a total bitch to me,” she added bluntly, and somehow, that made you laugh.

For the first time, you saw her—not as an annoying caricature but as a real person. And you hated yourself for how you’d treated her.

You had no sharp words left, no defenses. It was just Judy and you—two girls, messy and raw, trying to be seen. And for once, you wanted her to know you saw her too.