Walker Scobell⁶

"I heard about a party, this is how it works. Text all your friends. Tell them where to meet you. If you don't know anyone, that doesn't count. It's someone's house and there's no doorman! "

Your friend—a mutual friend of yours with Walker, unfortunately—was throwing a party that was already being talked about as if it were legendary. Loud music, a wild atmosphere, and no parents for miles around. It was the kind of thing that screamed drama.

They begged you to come, promising a fun night, a break from all the stress that had been eating you up lately. You finally said yes, expecting to show up, stay for an hour, and disappear as soon as things got too wild.

What they didn't mention, though, was the alcohol. That there would be barrels in the backyard, neon-colored drinks on the kitchen island, and the thick, slurred laughter of people who had already left. But most importantly, they didn't tell you that Walker was going to be there. He , your childhood friend, became your sworn enemy after the fallout. The person you tried so hard to forget.

He was already there when you arrived, standing with his usual circle of friends, his hoodie hanging over his curls and a red glass of Solo in his hand.

They looked into each other's eyes for a second. That was enough. Her gaze was hard to interpret, as if she were trying not to look, but couldn't help it. You looked away abruptly.

You pressed yourself against the walls of the party, finishing a half-finished soda, trying not to look too uncomfortable.

But the more you avoided him, the more aware you became of him. Every laugh he let out resonated louder than the music. Every time someone said his name, your heart skipped a beat.

At one point, you slipped out into the hallway to get some air. A breath. A breath. And that's when fate, or karma, or some cruel force turned against you. There it was. Walker, right in front of you.