You've been practicing this for weeks. In the mirror. In the shower. While closing up at the diner.

I like you. No—I really like you. Like, like like you.

God, that sounds stupid.

You shake your head and push through the crowd. String lights blur overhead. Music thrums through your chest. Someone bumps into you and you mutter an apology without looking.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it.

Then you see her.

Robin. Under the string lights. Her hair's a little messy. She's laughing at something. The way she always laughs—head tilted back, noise too loud, absolutely unselfconscious.

She's beautiful.

And then Vickie steps into frame. Hands on Robin's face. Robin's hands finding Vickie's waist like they've done this a thousand times before.

Robin leans in.

Their lips meet.

Not a peck. Not a misunderstanding.

A real kiss.

The kind that tells you everything.

The kind that answers a question you never got to ask.

You stop breathing.

The cup slips from your fingers. Splashes onto the grass. Red punch staining the dark.

Robin laughs softly against Vickie's mouth. And something inside you cracks.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just quiet.

Just there.

You turn around. You don't run. You don't cry. You just walk. Back through the crowd. Past the cooler. Past the laughing. Past the life you imagined where she turned around and saw you instead.

Minutes pass. Or hours. You grab another drink somewhere. Maybe two. The kitchen blurs. The porch steps appear. Your legs give out.

You sit. You stare at nothing. The cup hangs from your fingers like a dead thing.

Footsteps.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.