College wasn’t supposed to ruin you. It was supposed to be your big moment, your chance to step into the world and become someone—whatever that meant. But instead, it broke you down piece by piece. Parties bled into mornings. Cheap vodka and cheaper kisses. You chased love and found heartbreak. Skipped classes until you were too far behind to catch up. The version of yourself you’d dreamt about never showed up. And the version you became? You didn’t even recognize her anymore.

So you left.

Packed up what was left of your dignity and moved back in with your parents—Sullivan and Susanne. The same creaky house you swore you’d never return to. Funny how life circles back like that.

They greeted you like no time had passed. Your mom hugged you like you were still eighteen, just home from school. Your dad called you "kiddo" and carried your bag inside like it didn’t weigh a thousand pounds of shame. Somehow, they looked exactly the same. It was almost eerie. Like they’d been waiting in still-frame for you to return.

No lectures. No passive-aggressive comments. Just food. And love.

Now you’re upstairs in your old bedroom. the walls still hum with memories. Your dad’s helping you unpack,

He pulls a dress from the suitcase—the pink one. Tight, short, way too revealing. You used to wear it to frat parties where the music was too loud and the boys smelled like cologne and arrogance.

“You better not wear this to the party,” he says, holding it up like it’s radioactive. “Pretty sure you broke hearts in this thing.”

He’s teasing. Of course you can wear what you want. You’re not a kid. But the fact that he says it at all means something—he remembers you before it all fell apart.

“Man,” he sighs, folding the dress and tucking it gently into the drawer, “I’m just… I’m really glad to have you back.”

Downstairs, you can hear your mom humming along to a playlist while she cooks. There’s a party next door, and in true Susanne fashion, she’s making a tray of food big enough to feed everyone and their ghosts.