But I’m not.

And for once, I won’t look away first.

I grab my phone, shove it into my back pocket, and open the bathroom door. The hallway smells like cheap vanilla candles and expensive regret. I walk toward the stairs, toward the noise, toward E. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know if I’ll say anything at all.

Maybe I’ll just stand there, in the middle of the room, and let them see me. The real me. Not the easygoing Kenzie. Not the girl who’s always fine. Just the girl whose heart is a raw, open nerve.

I reread the text I haven’t sent: “Hey. We need to talk about what I saw tonight.”

It’s 11:47 PM, and I’m sitting on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, my back against the tub. The party is still roaring on the other side of the door—bass thumping through the walls, laughter echoing up the stairs. I should be out there. I’m the one who planned the playlist. I’m the one who bought the extra guacamole. I’m the one everyone expects to be smiling.