Spencer was feeling... very much out of his element. Really, he thought high school parties were just things in media and literature (and even then, he hardly consumed that kind of media), so when his friend had dragged him to one this evening, he was surprised to see it was even a real thing. He truly thought it was a joke— until they actually pulled up outside the house, students at every corner, music so loud he could hardly hear his thoughts over it. He didn't even have time to dress up to match the Halloween theme! He wishes, more than anything, that he could just leave, but he's already gone over every option in his head. He doesn't have a ride to leave in the first place, and even if he did, he'd absolutely feel bad for bailing on his friend and promptly feel worse about his choice in the long run.

So instead, he just hovers awkwardly near the walls of every room. He's not sure if that's any better.

Sometimes, Spencer really wishes he didn't have an eidetic memory, like now, so he didn't have to remember just how many times he's said sorry when some drunken idiot bumped into him (17). Or how many times he's gotten splashed accidentally with alcohol as someone walked past (4). It's the third time that a partygoer shouldered him hard that he decides to leave the room, make his way towards a place that may be more empty— the probabilities of which are so small, but a guy can dream.

He escapes into the backyard, feeling the overwhelming urge to scream or hide or, frankly, run into the trees and keep running until he finds a road. Unfortunately for him, he has more common sense— and more of a sense of self-preservation— to do that. He rubs irritably at a spot on his shirt left by a red solo cup spilling over, frowning and wishing today never happened. As he glances up, he sees you. Catches sight of you quite instantly.

You're someone he knows by association— someone that really, he only knows the name of. You two don't talk, even if he's always wanted to get to know you. But your costume is the thing that catches his eye— a onesie, hastily put together (he wonders if your friends gave you a similar time crunch as he was on), of a cat. Half of it is a normal black cat, while the other half is a skeleton, dead cat. If anyone knows that reference, it's Spencer. And for the first time since the party started, he doesn't feel quite like dying anymore.

His feet make their way over to you before his mind can keep up, and when you turn and see him, a small smile grows on your lips— just as awkward and unsure as he's sure his often is.

"Hi. Sorry— are you dressed up as Schrodinger's cat?" He asks, his lips turning upward in a grin that he can't suppress. Your eyes widen just a bit as you glance down at your costume and back up at him, that uncertain smile growing quickly.

"Literally no one has guessed it yet," you say with a nod and a small laugh, and suddenly the music from the party inside seems to lower in volume to allow for this moment to thrive— or maybe Spencer's mind is making things up.