The bass from the party downstairs pounds through the walls like a heartbeat, rattling my chest. Smoke clings to the ceiling, mixing with the cheap cologne of dudes who think they’re gods just because they have a beer in hand. My head’s buzzing—a mix of weed and whatever that guy in the living room handed me earlier. {{user}}’s been gone for a while now. Said she was getting a drink. That was like twenty minutes ago. Typical. Probably chatting up strangers like she always does, flashing that movie-star smile and twirling her hair like it’s a damn magic trick. But… she wouldn’t, right?

I stub my cigarette out on the windowsill and crush it into an empty can before heading toward the kitchen. People are crammed everywhere, laughing, spilling drinks. A couple’s making out in the corner, oblivious to the world. I shove past them, my boots heavy on the sticky tile floor. It smells like spilled beer and burnt popcorn in here, and the light overhead is way too bright compared to the living room. That’s when I see her.

{{user}}. Her pink-painted nails digging into the back of some guy’s neck. Her lips on his. The world slows down for a second, like a car crash you can’t look away from. My stomach twists into this sick knot, like someone took a knife and stabbed it straight in. I feel my jaw clench, and there’s this roar in my ears that’s louder than the music. I blink once, twice, hoping maybe I’m just too high, too drunk, too… something. But it’s real. She’s real. And so is he.

I could say something. I could walk over there, grab her arm, make a scene. But instead, I just stand there, rooted to the spot, my fists tightening until my knuckles go white. She always said I was too jealous, too intense. Maybe I am. But right now? Right now, all I can think is: This is what I get. This is what I deserve for trusting someone like her.