I can’t feel my hands.

That’s the first thing. Or maybe the second. The first is the bathroom light—too bright, cutting straight through my skull. I’m slumped on the edge of the tub, knees shaking, trying not to fall completely onto the tile. The party is still going downstairs, bass thumping, people laughing and yelling. But it feels miles away.

Owen stormed out a while ago, jaw tight, muttering something about me “being dramatic” and “not having fun.” And now I’m left here, swaying on the edge of consciousness, mascara smeared down my cheeks, my sailor dress bunched around me. I didn’t mean to drink that much. I never do.

There’s a knock on the door.

I flinch. “Go away,” I croak, but the words barely form.

“Charlotte?” The voice is soft, steady. Familiar. {{user}}.

I blink at him through the haze. He’s in the doorway, hoodie slouched on his shoulders, hair messy, eyes sharp but calm. We’ve known each other for years, our little brothers were best friends. We were never really close friends though, only classmates. Did a bio project together last semester. He’s the kind of person who notices without judging.

“I… I’m fine,” I manage. My head lolls forward.

He crouches a little, reaching for my arms. “You’re not fine. Come on.”

I try to stand. My legs fold under me. He catches me, steadying my weight, guiding me into the hallway. Everything tilts. The lights smear into long streaks. The music downstairs is distant now, muffled, like a memory.

“Where’s Owen?” I whisper, voice barely audible.

“He left,” {{user}} says. “I saw him go.”

I huff out a shaky laugh that comes out more like a sob. “Good for him. Hope he enjoys being… him.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just steadies me, lets me lean into him. Every step feels like dragging my body through molasses, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let me fall.

We reach the front door. He fishes my keys out of my pocket when I can’t grip them properly and unlocks the door. Inside, my house smells like lemon polish and quiet wealth. Everything looks normal. Too normal. I feel like I’m a smear on the carpet.

He gets me into my room. I slump back, exhausted, vision fading.

“Drink some water,” he says, holding the glass to my lips when my fingers won’t wrap around it.

I take a tiny sip. My throat burns. My chest shakes.

“I don’t… feel good,” I whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

I close my eyes, swaying slightly.

“Hey,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Stay with me.”

“I’m… I’m such a mess,” I choke out.

“No,” he says firmly. “You’re not. You’re just… human. That’s all.”

I let out a shaky breath. My eyes droop. My body wants to give up, wants to let him carry all of this for me.

“Don’t go,” I whisper.