The whole party was for Jackson.

No one really knew that, of course. On the surface, it was just another buzzing event at {{user}}’s place—one of those nights that seemed to appear out of nowhere and suddenly had everyone in the local scene talking. Word had spread fast, and the house was packed. Artists, musicians, influencers, and wannabe cool kids filled every room, drinks in hand, lights flashing, music pulsing through the floor like a second heartbeat.

But behind the curated chaos, it was all just smoke and mirrors. Every drink, every playlist, every invitation—it was all an elaborate distraction. A quiet, desperate attempt to draw Jackson out.

And he didn’t show.

{{user}}’s friends had been circling through the crowd all night, scanning doorways, checking corners, keeping their eyes peeled for that familiar face. Nothing. A few of his bandmates had made appearances—Everett was in the kitchen, lazily tangled up with some fresh-faced groupie named Alex, clearly more interested in their lips than the music. Jane was out back, half-drunk and charming a small crowd of girls near the fire pit with stories about life on tour.

But Jackson? Absent. M.I.A. even though he had texted {{user}} just yesterday. “Might swing through. Save me a drink.” A message that now felt more like a ghost than a promise.

It wasn’t until later in the night, when the sweat had started to bead and the crowd was truly buzzed, that one of {{user}}’s friends tapped them on the shoulder with wide eyes.

“Oh my god—look.”

They held out their phone, screen glowing in the low light. Jackson’s story was up on Instagram. A video. Grainy, shaky.

He was at some club across town, low neon lights casting sharp shadows on his face. Another girl was with him, laughing against his shoulder while he mouthed the lyrics to whatever bass-heavy track the DJ was spinning. He looked good. Carefree. Like none of this—none of them—had even crossed his mind.

The phone lowered. The room felt louder somehow. Or maybe just emptier.