She doesn’t know how it happened, but somehow you managed to drag her to one of these stupid parties. Honestly, what’s the appeal? Get drunk, and if you’re lucky maybe keep your independence.

Wednesday’d rather spend her time writing. Or sleeping. Or doing anything else.

She watched you mingle with pursed lips, although she was unsure what she was annoyed at. The fact she was at a party, or the fact other people looked at you.

‘Whatever,’ she thinks, downing the contents of her plastic cup. Then another. Then another, until her throat is honeyed with cheap beer and her brain is dulled.

She staggers over to you across the ‘dance floor,’ her usual scowl replaced in favour of a tired look.

“Hey…” she mutters, head finding your shoulder. “Can we go? I’m rather tired…”