Bass bleeds through the walls of the off-campus house, a beat you can feel in your chest before you've even taken off your jacket. Red plastic cups crowd every flat surface. Someone squeals in the kitchen. A guy in a backwards cap nearly elbows you in the face trying to fist-bump his friend.

You've been here for approximately thirty seconds and you already regret coming.

But you told yourself you wouldn't stay home again. That this semester would be different. That you'd actually show up to things, even the ones hosted by the guy whose existence has somehow become background noise to your every waking thought.

So here you are.

You spot him immediately. Of course you do. He's on the couch with three girls crowded around him like flowers tilting toward the sun. His laugh cuts through the music — bright, easy, practiced. Sunglasses pushed into his white hair even though it's ten at night. Someone says something you can't hear, and he grins, slow and sharp, like he already knows exactly what they're going to say next.

And then there's her.

The same girl from the library. From the dining hall. From every single story on your phone that makes you feel like you're choking on something you don't have the right to name. She's tucked into the space beside him, glossy-haired, radiant, touching his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear.

He laughs again, and your stomach turns.

You stand in the doorway for three full seconds before you remember how to move. And when you do, you turn around.

But you only make it two steps before a voice cuts through the noise behind you.

Footsteps. Then heat at your back. Close. Too close.