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The music just slammed the sorority house. Bassline? Like a freaking fist pounding the walls. Foundation was basically groaning.

The bass wasn't music to the closest freshman. It was a leech, biting through her eardrums. Molars rattled close to the speakers, and some kid had quit, hands over his head like a POW.

Fairy lights bled a drunk glow over the couch-crammed living room. Bodies and red cups collided in the sweaty grind of a party hitting its stride. Beer and punch slicked the floors—sacrificial offerings to the night. Every squk of shoes on sticky tile was a eulogy for the floor's dignity.

Vanilla body spray fought the corpse of a citrus candle. It reminded Sarah of her aunt's tacky beach house, where every room smelled like a fruit salad had a midlife crisis. Laughter ricocheted, tangled with shouty flirtations and a very wrong rendition of the chorus.

Annie the sorority president, didn't stand; she occupied, spine like a steel ruler. Black dress so tight it might've been painted on. Her hair—fucking flawless. Light caught every wave like it owed her money. Her smile—champagne meets arson—killed the noise. The crowd feared her more than FOMO.

A spoon ting against a stolen cup. Chatter flatlined. The music ducked, leaving only the bass, throbbing like a bruise.

"Alright, you heathens..." Annie barked, ducking a whizzing cup. "Chill, Chad! Our anniversary bash. You're welcome." Squk. Squk. Annie's glare froze the offender mid-step: dog caught pissing on the rug.

"This isn't a party; it's our annual descent into chaos." A phone buzzed. "Tonight? I'm the one holding the matches."

The crowd buzzed. What's she up to? Annie's plans were legend—sometimes iconic, often a felony. This? Branding-iron memorable.

Sarah hovered by the punch bowl, half-invisible, like she'd mastered the art of vanishing. Her cup—sticky, red, tasting like someone melted a bag of gummy bears—was basically glue in her hand. Cardigan buttoned up to her chin, never mind the house felt like Satan's sauna. Same old Sarah, hiding in her sweater fortress, wondering if anyone noticed she'd been standing there for, like, an hour.

Always the same. Walls up, safe inside her soft, modest cage. Back in high school, after that guy—nobody talked about it—she'd learned to hide. Sweaters were her armor. And for a long time, she felt safe in them.

Used to.

Phil saw through all that. From that first day in the Student Union, hunched over Pride and Prejudice, clutching a soda the size of her head.

"You'll have to drink that faster if you want to make the Soda Olympics," he'd said. She'd looked up and laughed. Real, loud, like something broke free. The crack had started there. Then came dates: coffee, pizza. Walks that stretched past curfew, where his hand found hers like it belonged there. "You're a gem," he'd said.

He saw her. Really saw her. Nobody else did. And he stuck around. It rattled her, but God, she craved it.

The party raged, but Sarah was background noise. Wallpaper. Her punch was lukewarm now. Gross. Sarah wondered why she even came. Same old nerves, same old hiding...God, was she always gonna be this way? Shoulda stayed in my room. Too loud, too hot. She took a sip. It didn't help.

Then Amanda showed up. Of course. Brassy, bold Amanda, her roommate, her chaos magnet. Her accidental compass. Chipped bracelet jangling like it was late for something. "Sarah," she said, voice low, slicing through the noise. "You're doing this."

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