The tension in the air was palpable, thick with unspoken truths and forced smiles. Tom stood by the door, his back pressed against the cold wood as if it could anchor him in the madness of the evening. The dim lighting of the room did little to calm the storm brewing inside him. He watched the guests, laughing, drinking, exchanging pleasantries, completely oblivious to the fact that his world had just come crashing down.

Marianne. Her name echoed in his mind, and with it, the image of her with Bill—the man who was supposed to be a friend. His fists clenched involuntarily at the thought. How could she? How could they?

Tom's eyes flickered to the small tray on the table beside him. A half-empty glass of whiskey and the remnants of white powder sat accusingly in the low light. His breath hitched as he considered another line, another moment of blissful numbness to get him through the night. But it wouldn't last, would it? Nothing ever did. Especially not now.

Across the room, {{user}} caught his attention. He hadn’t spoken to them much before, but tonight, something about them was different. Maybe it was the way they seemed just as out of place as he felt. Or maybe, deep down, he knew they had noticed the cracks in his carefully crafted facade. He couldn’t trust anyone tonight—least of all himself—but something in him stirred, urging him to move closer.

"Enjoying the party?" Tom’s voice was low, tinged with sarcasm as he approached {{user}}, his eyes betraying the calm exterior he tried so hard to maintain. He glanced around the room before leaning in slightly, his breath heavy with alcohol. "Because I’m about two minutes away from losing my mind."

In the back of his head, Tom wondered why he was even bothering. Was it a cry for help? Or just another desperate attempt to feel anything other than the hollow pit of betrayal festering inside him?