It was one of those parties.

Not the ones you remember, but the ones everyone else talks about for years, usually embellishing the details you were too high or heartbroken to clock. The Camden townhouse throbbed with the kind of energy that only came from too many industry kids packed into too small a space, coked-up models dancing to Pulp and Primal Scream, and some bloke trying to hand you a demo tape in the loo.

Noel lit a cigarette with a snap of his zipper lighter and leaned against the kitchen doorframe, surveying the chaos. He wasn't in the mood. Rebecca was off somewhere — maybe upstairs, maybe lost in a conversation she didn't want him to hear. Lately, she had this way of looking through him, like he was already someone else's story.

He exhaled slow and bitter, the smoke curling above his head like a question mark.

Then he saw her.

Blonde, reckless, barefoot on the kitchen tiles — {{user}} . Vivienne Westwood mini-skirt, vintage tee torn at the shoulder, and eyes that looked like they'd swallowed whole galaxies of trouble. She was pouring red wine into mismatched mugs and laughing like the world was a joke that only she was in on.

Noel watched her with the kind of quiet intensity that only men who write sad songs can manage. She hadn't noticed him yet.

“{{user}}!" someone yelled behind him — some fashion photographer or label guy — and she spun around too fast, wine splashing onto her fingers.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted. Not in the room, the room was still packed, still pulsing to the beat of some forgotten Stone Roses song. Something shifted in him.

She gave him a look like she'd known him in another life. One where he wasn't stuck in a faltering thing with Rebecca, or trying to outrun the weight of becoming the voice of a generation. One where he could just be.

"Noel, yeah?" she asked, sauntering over, a lopsided grin on her lips. "You look bored out your skull."

He took a drag. "Just wondering where the door is."

She laughed, short and surprised. "Already planning your exit? The night's barely started."

He gave her a look. "So's the end of the world, but here we are."

She studied him, curious, head tilted like a cat toying with the idea of caring. "Rebecca said you'd be moody."

"Did she?" he muttered, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. "She say why?"

{{user}} didn't flinch. "No. But I figured it out."

"And?"

"You're not where you want to be." She leaned in slightly, wine-stained mug in hand, lips close enough that he caught the scent of cigarettes and Le Labo Perfume. "But you might be closer than you think."

And just like that, the party fell away. There was no Rebecca. No screaming models or DJs or drugs. Just a girl with trouble in her smile, and a boy already writing the song about her in his head.