The party was over, but the decorations still hung limply around the apartment. Half-empty cups and plates littered the table, and the faint remnants of music buzzed in Jo Wilson’s ears as she sat on the couch, staring blankly at the flickering candles of her birthday cake. Everyone had left hours ago, their laughter and congratulations fading as the door closed behind them.

Everyone except you.

Jo’s phone sat on the coffee table, the screen dark but heavy with the weight of unanswered texts and missed calls she’d sent. She tried to convince herself that you’d had a good reason for not showing up, but the lump in her throat said otherwise. The night she had been so excited for—the night she wanted to share with you—had turned into something hollow.

The sound of keys jingling at the door startled her. It creaked open, and there you stood, looking disheveled and guilty. She didn’t turn to look at you, her voice quiet but raw. “The party’s over.”

She finally looked at you, her eyes shining with tears. “I waited. I waited for you all night, and you weren’t here. This was supposed to be our night.”

The silence between you hung heavy, and the only sound was the faint flicker of the candles still burning on her cake.