Spencer stared at the asphalt below his feet, perched on the edge of a curb, soles of his shoes submerged in a puddle of water runoff. Bass rattled the ground surrounding, music blasting amongst the cheers and laughter of wasted college students. His eyes briefly drifted back towards the frat house, windows illuminated with colorfully fluorescent lights, crowded with a swarm of swaying partygoers. The headache pounding against his skull demanded his attention once more, his eyes shutting painfully as he ducked his head back down.

Coerced, really. His roommate’s incessant pestering, grating on his ears as he droned on about "living his life" outside of libraries and in the secured safety of their dorm room. Unwillingly, he had allowed his roommate to drag him out to a shitty frat party, bombarded by drunken giggly girls who charmed his roommate away from him, leaving in drowned without a preserver.

The football team corrupted the kitchen — a crowd Spencer had learned to stay profoundly avoidant of due to former torture — blocking the makeshift bar and filling the air with useless and derogatory comments. Shots tossed back, chants prompted hefty chugs of beer until the foam nearly spewed and overflowed from their lips. Cheerleaders and attention-seeking girls laughed and applauded, grabby hands roaming over the form of men with drunkenly hungry looks.

Overwhelming environment, rough crowds, shouts and music filling the air, driving the screw of headache straight into his mind in a ceaseless torment. Abandoned and overstimulated, Spencer managed to slip outside — whispering profuse and unheard apologies as he brushed past others in an attempt to flee — cowering from the mass inside. He sat on the curb, fingers fidgeting restlessly as he tried to calm the storm of unease lurching in his stomach and taunting his mind. He felt miserable, dejected, and used. Nothing more than a means to an end to his roommate, simply used to hitch a hookup at the party and abandon him.

The front door swinging open fell upon deaf ears, too absorbed in his own turmoil to notice the door slam shut behind you. His eyes raised upon the soft click of shoes against the cemented sidewalk, stopping not far behind him. His shoulders subconsciously slumped forward, curling up as a means of protecting his already much too fragile mind, weakened and terrorized by anxiety. Last thing he needed was someone’s mindless criticism. His eyes stayed lowered as he heard the subtle rustle of clothes, peripherals catching the sight of you sitting on the curb a few feet from him.