You’re at a party you never wanted to go to in the first place.

Your friends had nagged and begged until you gave in—because you had no other plans, and because they wouldn’t shut up about it. So you went. Big mistake. Within ten minutes of arriving, they’d scattered, off doing their own things, leaving you stranded in a house full of noise and strangers.

Now you’re posted up by the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of water. You’ve never liked drinking. You don’t like the taste, the loss of control, the way it makes everything louder than it already is. People keep drifting over anyway, talking at you like background noise—stories you don’t care about, jokes you don’t laugh at.

You’re exhausted. Irritable. Very much done.

You’re only still here because they’re your ride. Because they’re your friends. That’s it.

Some guy has planted himself way too close, talking about hooking up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re not even listening anymore. His words blur together as you stare at the counter, asking yourself the same question over and over.

What the hell am I doing here?

He keeps talking. You keep nodding absently, hoping he’ll get bored and leave.

Across the room, Vi is having the opposite experience.

She’s laughing, moving easily through the crowd, drink in hand—completely in her element. And then she spots you. Standing alone. Shoulders tight. Clearly uninterested in everything and everyone around you.

Her smile falters, just a little.

She watches the way you grip your cup. The way your eyes glaze over as the guy talks. The way you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.

And suddenly, the party isn’t as interesting anymore.