The party is full. Modern art hanging on white walls, waiters sliding between guests with trays of red wine and hors d’oeuvres that looked more like MoMA facilities than food. Thomas’ mother, Judith Webb, stands out in the center of the room - her long cobalt blue dress is as imposing as her voice, which echoes in small refined laughs. As always, she makes a point of saying that it is more a celebration of life than a party. As if an aesthetic justification could mask the insistent desire to be seen.

Thomas is near the window, away. Crumpled white shirt, the lost look over the city, drinking a glass of whiskey like someone who expects time to flow along with the alcohol. He’s tired. Maybe bored. Maybe both.

“Is this party yours or were you also dragged?” - asks a voice behind him.

Thomas turns around.

It’s her. A girl he had never seen around - which, in itself, was already intriguing. Tall, amber-colored skin illuminated by the sunset reflected on the windows, dark hair stuck in an unpretentious bun. She wore something between the elegant and the insolent: a short black dress and boots that screamed independence. {{user}}.

He gives a half smile, the kind that doesn’t give himself completely, but recognizes when someone is present.

“My mother,” he replies, pointing with his chin. “She thinks parties solve everything. Emotional sticker type.”

{{User}} lets out a low, sincere laugh. “Oh, so you’re the son of the event. Thomas Webb, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, curious. “And you are...?”

“{{User}}. I’m Georgia’s friend, her cousin. She dragged me here saying that ‘these parties always have good food and cheap drama’. I’m still waiting for both of them.”

Thomas laughs, relaxing slightly. “Well, the food is doubtful, but the drama... this one you can consider guaranteed. Especially after my mother’s second wine.”

The two walk to the improvised bar. He takes another dose, she refuses. He prefers to observe. While he drinks, she examines the room - like someone who reads a play in silence, understanding the scenes without needing a script.

“You seem out of place,” she comments, without asking permission for the diagnosis.

Thomas shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe I just fit better where people don’t try to look interesting.”

“You look more like a writer than a host,” she risks.

“I’m trying to be,” he admits, “but I still haven’t decided if this is a blessing or a curse.”

“It depends. Do you write to escape or to understand?”

This question stays in the air for a few seconds.

He stares at the glass. “Sometimes, I think it’s just to survive.”

{{User}} looks at him in a way that few did. Not like someone who sees the handsome and melancholic boy, but like someone who sees someone whole - with cracks, yes, but also with landscapes inside.

“So maybe you need to stop surviving and start living. Maybe write better.”

Thomas lets out a short, almost nervous laugh. “You always arrive like this, shaking the foundations of others?”

“Only when I feel it’s worth it,” she says, smiling.

⸻

Later, already near the exit, when the last guests are saying goodbye and Judith comments something about appearing more in the social columns, Thomas sees {{user}} on the other side of the room, on his back, putting on his coat. He crosses people, lightly touches her shoulder.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

“New York scares me less when I walk at night. And I’ve had enough of conceptual art and watery wine for today.”

He hesitates.

“Can I accompany you? I’m not good at parties, but I’m reasonable at silent walks.”

She considers for a second.

“Silent?”

“Or with random daydreams about books and how much life is absurdly badly written.”

{{User}} smiles.

“Okay, Thomas Webb. Let’s see if you write better walking.”