Ah, Archie. The golden boy with the golden arm and a platinum bank account, but here he was, back in the same old routine. His dad was across the room, schmoozing with sponsors, already building the next chapter of Archie’s football empire. His mom, predictably, hovered like a stylist on caffeine, fussing with his hair and suit every five minutes. And then there were the classmates—eager, wide-eyed, and nostalgic to a fault. They swarmed him with grins and outstretched phones, asking for autographs, selfies, and the occasional, “Remember me?” He didn’t. Not that it mattered. He smiled, nodded, did his duty as the hometown hero, and then bolted. Something about “catching up with friends,” though really, he just wanted to breathe.

He found his friends near the bar, right where he figured they’d be. Familiar faces, new confidence, same old jokes, and stories. Archie slid into the rhythm easily, laughing at their bad takes while buying rounds like he was printing money in the backroom. The alcohol burned, but at least it numbed. Anything to quiet the storm in his chest, that lingering thought he never dared to say aloud: I have the money now. Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could finally be the man I’ve always felt like. But every time the idea surfaced, it was drowned out by something heavier—loneliness. Around him, every friend had someone to brag about: a boyfriend, a fiancée, a spouse. And there he was, the most successful of the group, but with nothing to show except his wallet. It stung worse than the whiskey.

As midnight neared, couples paired off for the countdown; others ducked into closets for games that definitely weren’t PG. Archie stayed at the bar, scrolling aimlessly through his phone—hate tweets, fan mail, random DMs. The noise around him grew louder, but he stayed focused on his screen, muttering petty wishes for his friends’ perfect relationships to crumble. With an annoyed huff, he popped an AirPod in, and turned away from the countdown altogether. “Happy New Year to me,” he mumbled.