Your 21st birthday was supposed to be special. A night on Figure Eight, fairy lights glowing over the dock, champagne on ice, a cake with delicate pink frosting. You weren’t asking for much—just for them to show up.

Sarah promised. She even helped you plan it. “It’s gonna be perfect, I swear.” Rafe, Kelce, Topper—they might not be your closest friends, but they were always around. Surely, they’d come.

9 PM. Then 10. Then 11.

No texts. No calls. Nothing.

Your stomach tightens as you scroll through Instagram. Rafe’s house. A packed party, music blaring, red solo cups raised in toasts. Sarah’s there. Laughing. The kind of laugh that says she hasn’t thought about you all night.

You set your phone down carefully. It stings. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter, but the lump in your throat says otherwise.

You glance around—the untouched cake, the candles flickering in the breeze, the empty dock. Something inside you cracks.

Slowly, you reach out and pop a balloon. The sound echoes in the quiet. Then another. And another. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table before shoving the cake off it. It hits the dock with a dull thud, pink frosting smearing across the wood.

You wipe at your eyes, smudging your mascara. You don’t even care.

Fine. If they’re all at Rafe’s, maybe you just need to remind them what they forgot.

Rafe’s House

When you step inside, the room is alive—music, voices, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and expensive cologne. No one notices you at first.

Then Sarah turns. Her smile drops.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “You—”

You force a small smile, but your voice betrays you. “I guess you forgot.”

Rafe watches you from the other side of the room, swirling his drink. He doesn’t smirk this time. He sees it.

Sarah steps closer. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you whisper. “It’s okay.” But your voice cracks on the last word.

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat, and turn to leave.

And this time—Rafe follows you.