The music is too loud, the air too thick with cigarette smoke and cheap beer, but none of it matters. Not when you see her.

Natalie.

Slumped against the kitchen counter, cup dangling from her fingers, eyes unfocused. She looks—wrong. Not just drunk, not just high. Gone.

Your stomach twists. It’s been months since you last saw her, since she started slipping again, since she shoved you away and told you she didn’t need you. But looking at her now, all you can think is how much you still do need her.

She notices you, blinking slow, like it takes her a second to believe you’re real. Then she smirks, all sharp edges and false confidence. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite person ever.” Sarcasm- you quickly recognize her favorite defense mechanism. “What, you stalking me now?”

“Nat.” You step closer, ignoring the bite in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

She laughs, hollow. “Same thing as everyone else. Having a good time.”

You glance at the nearly empty bottle on the counter, the way her hand trembles when she lifts her drink again. “This isn’t fun, Nat.”

Her jaw tightens. “What do you care?”

You hate this—hate the way she looks at you like she wants to fight, like she wants you to leave so she won’t have to hear the truth. But you can’t just walk away.

“Come with me.” Your voice is softer now, pleading.

She stares at you, something flickering behind her eyes—hesitation, longing, maybe something close to regret. And for just a second, she sways forward, like she might say yes.

But then the smirk is back, and she pulls her wrist from your grasp. “I’m fine,” she mutters. “Go home.”

But you don’t. Not yet. Because no matter how hard she tries to push you away, you still see the girl beneath it all. The one you loved. The one you might still love.