Reading time: 19 minutes
I sat in class when Delilah finally arrived—bright as ever, smiling like the world hadn’t done anything wrong. She moved toward her desk, and for a moment everything felt normal. Then someone stepped in her way. They were practically buzzing, grinning like they’d been waiting all morning for this one reaction. I watched Delilah pause, tilt her head, and accept the poster the boy handed her. Her smile landed like it belonged there—effortless, deserved. I envied her. The thought made me uneasy. Was it healthy to feel this way? Probably not. I was furious—at them, at everyone—at the way life had worn the happiness out of me until I couldn’t find it anymore. The good things that happened to me didn’t fix anything. They only sharpened the contrast, like proof that something was still missing. And then Delilah crossed the space between us and slapped the poster against my desk, her excitement spilling over the edges.
“Chloe!” It startled me so badly I almost looked up too fast.
“Yes?”
“You wanna go to this party?” she asked, fanning the invite like it was a festival brochure. It was Melissa’s birthday party. A poster for a party. How childish. Melissa—queen-bee, crown-wannabe, cool-kid on a schedule. I couldn’t care less. Except Delilah cared. And somehow, that made it harder to refuse.
“Sure,” I said, even though my voice sounded flatter than I meant it to. “We’ll go.”
“Yay!” Delilah beamed. “Great. Now we just need good outfits. Do you have one?”
“Yeah… I’ll find something, I guess.”
“Okay. Just so you know,” she began, already leaning into the story, “Melissa’s parties are usually…”
“Settle down, it’s time for class,” Mr. Arthur cut in as he stepped into the room.
I leaned back in my seat, pretending to listen. Curiosity tugged at me anyway—because Delilah would’ve said something she wanted me to hear. Some warning. Some hint about how messy it could get.
But anyone with a brain could guess. This was a classroom full of teenagers who, in a few months or years, would suddenly be expected to know how to be adults. The worst stage, but somehow the most important—life never really got easier, not from what I’d seen. Adults only acted like it did. Like they’d escaped the trap. Maybe it was different for others. I wouldn’t know. I really wouldn’t.
***
I was finally home in my bedroom, where the silence felt heavier than usual—because Mom wasn’t around. Thank God. I couldn’t handle her right now. Not after what happened last month.
I stared at my empty wardrobe until my thoughts drifted somewhere I didn’t want them to go. Hopelessness pooled in my chest like something I couldn’t swallow or spit out. If I asked Mom for anything—if I even tried—she wouldn’t just say no. She’d make it sound like my needs were an inconvenience. Like I was already too much. Like I was a burden with legs. And maybe I was.
All I wanted was to look different tonight. Different in a way that would make me feel like I belonged. Like people wouldn’t look at me and quietly decide I was temporary. I’d never belonged anywhere. I just shoved myself into places I didn’t fit, like if I pushed hard enough, the world would eventually make room. But what hurt the most wasn’t only that I didn’t fit. It was that my “difference” wasn’t even something I could fix with effort— one, because it wasn’t something wrong with me at all, and two, because it wasn’t my fault. That didn’t make it easier.
Then I saw the dress.
Black. Small. More than that—it was tailored in a way that would actually fit. A perfect option for a room full of people who probably didn’t think about what clothes meant until they were standing in front of mirrors like mine. I didn’t smile when I picked it up. Relief came instead, sharp and small, like a bandage over something infected. Because even if I found enough “small” comforts to get through the night, it wouldn’t change anything about my real escape. It wouldn’t get me out of my own head. It wouldn’t save me.
***
That night, I finished dinner quickly. When Mom went back to whatever mood she lived in, I slipped out with a quiet “goodnight,” then rushed upstairs like speed could protect me.
I got ready for Melissa’s party.
I used my mother’s makeup—careful, like stealing could be quieter if I moved slower. Mascara brought out my lashes, thin but long enough to look dramatic if I let them. Chapstick gave my mouth that warm, polished shine. I stared at the foundation, then pushed it aside. A mask, sure. But not a whole new person. In the mirror, I looked different—just different enough to almost fool me. Even before everything happened to me, I’d never seen myself as beautiful. Not really. I didn’t care what strangers thought, or what friends might say if they tried to be kind—because kindness didn’t change what the mirror insisted on showing me. I never looked “right,” never looked like someone people would be proud to stand next to. Not as a friend. Not as anything else.
That feeling wasn’t always this loud. At some point, I’d learned how to push it away. Like if I ignored it long enough, it would tire out. But now there was nothing holding it back. Bad thoughts flooded in without permission. I couldn’t come to peace with my face. With my body. With myself. Or maybe it wasn’t even about the way I looked. Maybe it was just me—another girl stuck in the impossible loop of comparing herself to “normal.” Delilah’s normal. I pressed my palms to my cheeks as if I could physically hold the panic in place. Then the comparison became a sentence that wouldn’t end. Like a curse. Like a trap. And I began to cry. Tears ruined the eye makeup instantly—smudging the liner I’d tried so hard to make sharp. Of course they did. Of course my face had to betray me at the exact wrong moment. I stared at my reflection, at the messy streaks, and then—without warning—my mouth pulled into something that wasn’t a smile. I smeared glitter over the tears anyway. It looked pretty. Too pretty. Like a disaster dressed up as art. For a second, it made me feel like I could mask the pain successfully—sooner than I thought. When I was done, I stopped looking at my whole body in the mirror. I couldn’t afford to linger in the wrong version of myself. I turned toward the window. And before I could overthink it, before fear could win, I leaped out—no second thoughts—then ran straight to Melissa’s house.
***
I stand at the front door with my hand still hovering over the knob, like I’m waiting for permission from the building itself.
I can feel the fabric against my skin, the way it settles when I breathe. Instead it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s idea of confidence.The party had already started.
I can hear the bass through the walls before I can even see anything. It pulses in a steady rhythm that makes my chest react, like my heartbeat wants to sync up and be useful. Then there’s the other sound underneath—laughter, voices overlapping, music too bright to be casual. My depression isn’t a slow sadness tonight. It’s an immediate, physical alarm. It tells me I’m about to walk into a room that will swallow me whole—too many people, too much noise, too many eyes that won’t land on me gently. The thought loops: If I go in, I’ll feel small. If I stay out, I’ll feel pathetic for not going. Either way, I lose.
Except Delilah invited me. Then I turn it. The door knob.
The door swings inward and the lights hit me like a wave—strobe flashes and colored washes that make the world look unreal, like I’ve stepped into a music video where I don’t know the choreography. The smell is stronger inside, clinging to everything: hair, clothes, air. It’s warm and sour at the same time, and my brain is trying to label it faster than it can process it. Sound comes next. It’s not just loud. It’s everywhere. It vibrates through my ribs, rattling my concentration. I can’t hold one thought for long because another sensation will always replace it: the thump of the bass, the bright flicker of light, a burst of laughter that sounds too close to my ear, the clink of glass.
I take one step and my body registers it like danger. My shoulders tighten. My breathing turns shallow without me asking it to. I tell myself: Just stand there. Just let it pass. You can leave whenever you want. But I don’t move back out. I don’t.
I cross the threshold because I came here to prove something to myself, even if I can’t name what it is yet. Proof that I can step into a room like this. Delilah spots me almost immediately, like she’s been watching for the exact moment I’d show up. She waves with her whole arm. When she smiles, it feels like someone opened a window in my chest.
“Hey!” she says, and her voice cuts through the noise better than mine ever seems to. I force my lips into something that resembles a smile. “I made it.” She throws her arms around me so quickly I almost flinch. When she pulls back, she keeps talking nonstop, guiding me like I’m not drowning. “Come on—over here!” she says, and she starts moving. I follow, because if I stop, the anxiety has room to grow legs. We weave through people. The crowd presses close and then parts, close and parts—like a living thing that can’t decide whether it likes you. Someone brushes my arm. I feel the friction of a stranger’s sleeve against my skin. I don’t know how to react—apologize? glare? shrink? I do none of those. I just keep walking, letting her steer me around the sharp edges. Then we stop and she begins talking to some people from our class. I space out.
The alcohol smell gets stronger as I move deeper into the room. My eyes water from the lights. My head feels too full, like my thoughts are packed in there with nowhere to go. I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw, and I can’t tell when I started. My depression tries another angle—What are you doing here? You look ridiculous. You’ll ruin someone’s night. You’re only a burden. I hate how familiar the words are. They always show up at the worst times. Delilah laughs at something someone says and it pulls me back, just enough. I glance toward her, grateful to have a single focal point. But even she can’t shield me from everything. The party is still the party—bright, loud, insistent. I feel the moment where I might shut down.
And then—because the universe loves timing in ways I never asked for—I notice a person standing a little apart from the crush. Not isolated, exactly. Just… positioned. Like he’s found his place in the chaos without getting swallowed by it. His shoulders are loose. He’s not braced against the noise. When he turns his head, it feels like the room shifts. His gaze lands on me and doesn’t slide off quickly like so many do. He looks at me like he’s actually seeing me, not just scanning for someone to entertain.
Something in my chest loosens. It’s not happiness yet. It’s not a crush like in movies. It’s smaller than that—more real. Like my body recognizes a chance to breathe. He says something—low enough that I have to angle my ear toward him to catch it. But the sound isn’t swallowed completely by the music. It reaches me clearly enough for me to answer. “Hi,” I say, and my voice surprises me by coming out steadier than I feel. He smiles. Not wide, not performative. Just… there. As if the smile belongs to him naturally, like he doesn’t need the party to justify it. “Hey,” he says back. His tone is calm in a way that makes my skin recognize safety. Delilah is still somewhere nearby, but she’s become background noise. The lights keep flashing. The alcohol smell keeps wrapping around everything. Someone passes us holding a drink that’s already sweating. I can hear a burst of laughter and the echo of it. But I’m talking now.
He asks me something simple—what I’m drinking, if I’m okay, whether I want to step a little closer to the quieter edge of the room. He doesn’t say it like a checklist. He asks like my answer matters. My depression expects dismissal. It expects pressure. It expects the world to treat me like an inconvenience. Instead, I’m treated like a person. So I answer honestly, even though honesty feels dangerous. “I’m… overwhelmed,” I admit, and the words leave me before I can protect myself with humor. “It’s a lot.” He nods like I didn’t say something embarrassing. Like overwhelm is something he understands, not something he judges. “Then we’ll do it your way,” he says. “Come—just for a minute. Let’s get air.”
He guides me, not yanking, not pulling—just offering space. We move away from the densest cluster, toward a pocket where the music is still there but it’s not beating against my skull. The lights flicker less intensely here. The air smells still like alcohol, but it feels less suffocating, like I can breathe without feeling punished for existing.
My shoulders drop a fraction again. It’s almost unbearable how much a small kindness can feel like an emergency exit. I realize I haven’t been standing like a statue anymore. I’m actually… standing. Living inside my body. The sensation is weirdly intimate, like I’m remembering I’m connected to the world. He talks to me over the music. He makes me laugh once, and the laugh catches me off guard. It feels wrong—like laughing here will make the depression come back harder later—but I laugh anyway, because the sound of it is proof that I’m still capable of something other than surviving.
Time gets slippery.
We dance for a while, not like we’re trying to impress anyone—just like we’re trying to find rhythm with each other. My movements feel awkward at first, clumsy under the weight of my anxiety. But he keeps adjusting to me—mirroring, giving me space, letting the moment be messy. I don’t feel judged. I feel safe enough to be imperfect. And in that moment, I understand something about him that I didn’t expect: he doesn’t seem interested in breaking me open. He seems interested in meeting me where I am. That’s rare. I look at him and it feels like the night has one thread, thin but real, pulling me forward instead of letting my depression drag me under.
We stop by a wall, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him without it being overwhelming. The party continues around us—loud, glittering, messy. But I’m no longer trapped inside it. I’m choosing my distance. I’m choosing the way I’m in it. And then, for the first time tonight, my mind stops trying to predict disaster. It just stays with him. Just with the lights. Just with the music. Just with the fact that I’m here, alive, not disappearing. I still feel fragile. I still feel like the overwhelm could come back at any second. But it’s not in control. Not right now.
He then asks this question. A question that I should have expected at a party.
“Do you want alcohol or—” He didn’t finish the sentence; instead, he pulled out a sachet. It had a few pills inside. Under the crazy party lights, everything looked too blurred to tell their colour properly—bright flashes, sharp shadows, my eyes struggling to focus while my pulse kept doing its own thing.
I knew they were drugs. And still—some weird, reckless part of me didn’t judge him. Not because I was careless, but because I wanted an escape more than I wanted caution. His confidence should’ve been a red flag. It should’ve made me step back. Instead, my lips formed a soft smile. I leaned into the moment, a little too bold. I could feel my anxiety turning into something cockier, something daring.
“No, I’m good.” He watched me like he was trying to read whether I was lying. Then I kept dancing—letting the rhythm carry me, letting my body answer for me. I flowed with the music like I belonged here, like the lights weren’t assaulting my senses. But he kept looking. His glance felt harsh, like a challenge disguised as contempt. I could almost feel him grinning before he even moved. Then he joined me in dancing anyway. My favourite song was playing—louder, warmer, faster—and it was actually… fun.
When the music stopped, the gap between us disappeared. It happened without warning; I fumbled, the crowd shifted, and suddenly I was right there beside him. Our noses were barely an inch away. Another song started playing—slow this time, softer, like the party was giving us a private pocket inside the noise. We both smiled at each other.
I kept finding myself staring at his lips. I wanted relief. Not necessarily from him—just from everything else. From my head. From my life at home. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment that made me forget. We collided anyway—my mistake, his choice, both of us leaning in. I felt his hands on my waist, pulling me closer like he already knew the shape of what he wanted from me. His body felt warm against mine. The lights flickered across his face. And then I felt it—heat and confusion at the same time. He was pulling me closer to him. Then I could feel it. Something hard. In my mouth. He had transferred the pill to my mouth. My mouth went slack for a second as I swallowed what he gave me, because part of me wanted the shift, wanted the way my thoughts might soften.
I opened my eyes fully. He opened his slowly too—like he’d been watching my reaction the whole time. A condescending look crossed his face, satisfied and superior, as if he’d “won” something. I accepted that look for what it was and gave him my defeat in the only way I could: a smile that said, Yes. You got what you wanted. We stayed close, still tangled in the music and the kitchen corner that smelled like alcohol and late-night food. I almost forgot we were in Melissa’s house. The world narrowed. He made me space out, made me forget everything I’d been holding onto so tightly earlier. I didn’t want to let go of this feeling. We finally climaxed—emotionally, physically, the kind of intensity that leaves you shaking afterward even when you’re standing still. We looked at each other, breathless.
“I won,” he said. I looked at him and smiled.
“Dont get too cocky.”
“You have a beautiful smile. May I have your name?”
“Mia.” I lied.
“Enrique.” He finally gave me his name. “Well, Mia, you made my night. May I have your contact? I would like to keep in touch with you.”
My stomach tightened for a second. I remembered something important: I don’t have a phone. I didn’t let it show, but I felt it hit me—like a small cliff edge under my feet.Then I remembered I could still do something else.
“Oh,” I said smoothly, forcing my voice steady. “My number isn’t available right now, but I can give you my Instagram handle.”
“Sure.”
He handed me his phone. I typed my username with shaky focus, like my hands were suddenly aware that everything mattered now. I gave it back and he smiled. He looked at me again: that lustful glance, that condescending gaze. Before it registered in my mind, his hand was already on my hip. I felt like this whole night my body was being assessed. He pulled me close. His face was slowly approaching mine. Then when he was only micrometers away from my lips, he moved towards my ear and said, “It’s getting late. Tonight was fun. We’ll meet again, Miss Mia.”
He then moved away from me and waved goodbye. As he left me there speechless, I was in utter shock and confusion. But I was also happy. Elated. I was a bit dizzy but I was fine. The mere thought of him made me sober. I did not like him. I wanted to use him as an escape from my family. I grinned.
***
I stepped into the apartment like the whole night was still clinging to me—cold air in my hair, perfume and laughter that wouldn’t quite wash off, my tight black dress suddenly feeling like a costume I couldn’t take off fast enough. My mood was ruined in a way that didn’t care what time it was. Nothing about the moment felt celebratory. The living room light snapped on. Yellow-white brightness sliced through the dark, and my stomach dropped before I even made it fully inside. My mom was there, upright on the couch, posture too controlled to be casual—like she’d been waiting and also preparing herself to be angry.
“Chloe,” she said. The word hit like a warning shot. I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t have something to say—because I had too much. The ache in my chest didn’t feel new. It felt old. It felt planted, watered, and grown into something I couldn’t pretend was normal anymore. My hands curled at my sides. The makeup on my face felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else.
Her voice was sharper when she stood. “You’re late.”
“Don’t,” I managed, and it came out smaller than I meant. Smaller than the anger, smaller than the hurt.
“Don’t what?” she demanded, stepping closer. “Don’t accuse me? Don’t—what—pretend you don’t know what I’m trying to ask?”
I finally looked at her directly. The room suddenly felt too bright, too close. “You want to know why I’m like this?” My voice rose, thin with something that wasn’t just anger. “Because you caused it. Don’t do what you did last month. Don’t do what you did last year.”
Her expression shifted—confusion flickered first, then hurt. But anger still won the race to her face. It always did.n“I caused your depression?” she repeated, like the words didn’t make sense coming out of my mouth.
“It wasn’t just one thing,” I snapped. “It was everything. Every time you said I was too much. Every time you decided I was fine until I wasn’t. Every time you acted like my feelings were nothing.Every time you mocked me for crying because apparently, ‘Tears are for the weak.’”
“So now I’m the villain?” she said, voice tight. I let out a short, bitter laugh. “You want a villain? I’ll get you a family picture!” We argued and argued, the way people do when they think volume will make the truth easier to hold. She kept trying to pull her meaning into the shape of care. I kept hearing pressure instead. The light didn’t flicker, but it felt like the brightness kept climbing—like the room was tightening around me.
Her voice cracked slightly, though she didn’t soften. “I was worried about you today. I even had to call your dad. You are becoming such a pain. A burden.”
“Just becoming. Be honest, mother. That’s all I have ever been to you.” I cut in. “You call it worry when it’s really just you expecting me to fix myself fast enough to make you comfortable.”
For a moment, the argument stalled—not really stopped, just paused, like we both ran out of somewhere to put the next word. I could only hear myself breathing. Too fast. Too shallow. And then something inside me gave way. I tried to speak again, tried to keep my anger in place long enough to say what I needed to say—but it slipped. My vision wavered, like the room was losing its agreement with reality. The light stayed steady, but the world around it didn’t.
“Chloe?” my mom said, and in her voice I heard fear trying to break through the anger. I took a step back and my heel caught on the rug. My mouth opened. No sound came out. My legs didn’t feel like mine anymore—like my body had decided it was done cooperating. Her face changed too quickly. In a blink, her anger vanished and something panicked replaced it.
My knees hit first. Then the rest of me fell, heavy and silent. For a second, there was only the sound of my mother’s breath catching—like she’d just realized what had actually happened. Then she was rushing toward me, hands hovering as if she didn’t know where to touch without making it worse.
“Chloe—Chloe, look at me. Stay with me.”
I tried to respond. I tried to fight the darkness pressing in at the edges. But the anger was gone now, drained out of me like color leaving a room. The only thing left was the numb weight of everything coming undone. Her voice rose, frantic, “Wait!”
…To be continued?