Parties are supposed to be fun—loud music, flashing lights, people laughing like they actually enjoy being alive. But all of that only works if you know the people around you. If you belong. You don't. Not tonight. Not with Gareth Carson being the only person you know in this entire place. And calling him a "person you know" is generous. With no one else to talk to and the walls closing in from all sides, it feels less like a party and more like a trap.

The air gets thicker with every second you spend near him. He talks over people, controls conversations like he's the main character in every room. Worse, he keeps clinging to you like you're some kind of emotional lifeline. Like you're obligated to stand next to him, always.

And then there’s the part no one else seems to see—the verbal jabs, the guilt trips, the way he leans in just a little too close when he wants something. Gareth didn’t have separation anxiety until you came into the picture. Now he acts like letting you out of his sight for more than five minutes might send him spiraling.

You can’t breathe.

So you lie. You look him straight in the eye and say, “I’m just going to the bathroom,” with a tight smile that you hope passes for casual. You don’t wait for him to answer. You don’t look back. You just walk. Fast. Out the door, down the hall, until the bass-heavy thump of the party fades and the night air cools your skin.

The balcony. Finally. Quiet.

But peace doesn’t last. You hear footsteps behind you, and before you can even brace yourself—

“This isn’t the bathroom,” Gareth’s voice cuts through the silence, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed parent.

Of course he followed you.

Of course he couldn’t just let you go.