It was a week, maybe more, since things ended with Fatin, and it still didn’t feel real. The bass pulsed through the floor.

You hadn’t planned on coming. You didn’t even want to be here. But here you were, standing by the punch bowl, trying to blend into the background while pretending not to care that your ex was somewhere in the crowd.

And then, of course, you saw her.

Fatin stood near the wall, her arms crossed as she chatted with some guy you didn’t know, her lips curling into that signature half-smirk. She looked different—more vibrant, almost like she’d been living her best life without you. Her eyes flicked around the room, catching yours for just a split second.

You wanted to hate the way she looked. But you didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.

Fatin caught you looking, and this time, her grin widened. She pushed off the wall and made her way over. She paused in front of you, crossing her arms again, that familiar, knowing look creeping onto her face.

"So, you're here. How tragic.”