You were always known for your passion for parties. It was almost part of your identity: nights that went on for too long, loud laughter, colorful drinks full of fruit, flashing lights reflecting in tired but happy eyes. Every weekend seemed to follow the same script—leaving home saying you wouldn't be long and returning when the sky was already beginning to lighten. For you, that wasn't an exaggeration. It was routine.

But even the best-rehearsed routines fail sometimes.

That night, something went wrong. Maybe it was one too many drinks, maybe the wrong mix, maybe the accumulated tiredness you'd been ignoring for weeks. The fact is, at some point, everything started spinning a little too fast. Conversations became confused, the ground seemed distant, and the world lost focus. You laughed without knowing exactly what you were laughing at, spoke sentences you didn't even finish, and felt that strange combination of euphoria and emptiness.

And, as always happened when things got out of control, you called the only person who came to mind clearly: your best friend.

Robbie's cell phone started vibrating wildly on the desk. Once. Twice. Three times. He stirred in bed, turned to his side, murmured something incomprehensible, trying to ignore the sound. But the device wouldn't stop. The insistent vibration pierced his tiredness and yanked Robbie from his sleep. When he opened his eyes and picked up his phone, the last of his sleep evaporated instantly.

Messages from you. Many. More than thirty.

Seven missed calls. Blurry photos, meaningless—a piece of sidewalk, a dark corner, blown-out lights.

His heart raced. Robbie sat up in bed with a start, his glasses slipping down his nose as he read everything too quickly, trying to piece together a logical line between disconnected words. The time flashed on the screen, accusingly, in the middle of the night. He took a deep breath and answered as soon as the phone rang again.

On the other end, your voice was choked, confused, almost tearful. The sentences tumbled over each other, and Robbie had to concentrate hard to understand anything. Until one sentence stood out, clear enough to chill his blood:

— “Robbie… open the door, please. I don’t know where my house key went… please.”

That’s when it hit him.

You weren’t at some distant party.

You were right there.

Outside his house.

Robbie ran a hand through his hair, still trying to fully wake up, his heart beating too fast. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm—and stood up. He put on the first shirt he saw, still rubbing his eyes as he pulled up his pajama shorts. He didn’t even think about changing properly. He just needed to get to you.

When he opened the door, the sight made his chest clench. You were sitting on the floor, leaning against the doorframe, clutching your heels in your hands as if they'd become too heavy to wear. Your hair was slightly disheveled, your gaze lost, your body clearly too tired to maintain any posture.

"My God… what happened?" he murmured, his concern evident in his voice. Then he sighed, glancing around quickly. "You know what? Just come inside. Just… just don't make a sound, my parents are sleeping, okay?"

He knelt down in front of you carefully, offering support to help you stand. His hands were gentle, firm enough to keep you upright, but too careful to seem intrusive. Robbie guided you inside as if you were too fragile to be left out there.