The bass thumped through the walls, making the framed pictures in the upstairs hallway vibrate. Y/N's heels sank into the carpet as she pushed past couples pressing against the wallpaper, her chest tight.

She wasn't supposed to be here. Maya had begged, promised it would be fun, swore Nathan would be happy to see her. But Nathan wasn't answering his phone, and every room she'd checked just smelled like sweat and cheap beer.

Then she saw him.

Nathan, her Nathan, had some cheerleader pressed against the banister. Her fingers were twisted in his messy dark hair. His hands were on her waist. They were kissing like Y/N didn't exist.

She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just turned and walked, shoulder bumping a kid holding a red cup, beer sloshing onto her sleeve. She didn't care.

At the end of the hall, a door sat slightly open. Smoke curled through the crack. She pushed it.

The room was hazy, heavy with the skunk-sweet smell of weed. Music blared from a phone on the dresser. Three boys were sprawled across the bed and floor, passing a joint. The one against the headboard—buzz cut, tattoos creeping up his neck, eyes half-lidded—looked over.