Her apartment always looked small, but tonight it glowed like it belonged in another city — string lights clinging to the balcony rails, silhouettes moving behind gauzy curtains, flickers of pink and gold dancing across the windows like the night itself had been rehearsed.

I was late, so late. I told her I couldn’t come, that I had things to do. And still... she threw the party. I hesitated at the front door, but decided to just walk up and knock, hoping — stupidly — that she wouldn’t be too angry to answer. She opened the door barefoot, cheeks flushed, curls frizzy from heat and dancing, soft chuckles that were slurred with alcohol. She was laughing at something behind her until she saw me. Then her face stilled. I hadn’t seen her look at me like that since the last time I kissed her.

"Hey, sorry for being late."