Eli made it through one class before deciding the second could go to hell for the day. The weekend was close, and he felt wrung out in a quiet way—like a towel twisted one time too many. Skipping wasn't a habit, but today he needed space. A little room to breathe between everything pulling at him from all sides.
He kept the rest of the afternoon light. A trim at a neighborhood barber who knew his face and didn't talk much. A stop at a modest clothing store where the racks weren't loud and the prices didn't hurt. He picked something clean and fitted—dark shirt, simple jacket. Nothing flashy. Just sharp enough to look like he'd made an effort.
By evening, he was outside Sam's place. The house sat in a calmer stretch of the city, big but not obnoxious about it. Cars lined the street, their reflections catching on windows and polished paint. Music spilled softly from inside—not blasting, just present.
The door was already open.
Sam spotted him first and grinned, pulling him into a quick half-hug.
"You survived the day."
"Barely," Eli said. "I came for the food and to remind people I still exist."
Inside, the place buzzed with conversation. Adults in pressed clothes, glasses in hand. Students hovering between confidence and awkwardness. Eli shook a few hands—Sam's dad, a couple of his business friends. Polite questions followed: college, plans, work. Eli answered easily, practiced enough to sound relaxed without saying much.
The house smelled faintly of wood polish and catered food. Soft lighting warmed the rooms. Music threaded through the noise, steady and smooth. It wasn't wild, but it wasn't stiff either. Just the kind of party that wanted to look effortless.
Eli drifted. He joked with a friend near the kitchen, laughed at something dumb, accepted a drink he'd nurse for longer than necessary. It felt familiar—comfortable even.
And then something in the room shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. No silence. No sudden pause in music. Just a subtle pull at his attention, like someone had lightly tapped the back of his neck.
He looked up without thinking.
She stood near the edge of the living room, partially turned away, one shoulder bare where the fabric of her dress dipped low. The dress was dark and smooth, hugging her frame in a way that felt intentional without being loud. Long legs. Easy posture. A stillness about her that didn't match the casual chatter around her.
For a brief second, something clicked. Not a clear thought—more like a feeling settling into place. The angle of her jaw. The calm way she occupied space. Even stripped of the coat and the quiet of the night, there was something unmistakably familiar about her, like a shape his mind had already traced once before.
She held her glass loosely, fingers relaxed, eyes moving slowly across the room as if she were cataloging it rather than participating. There was something controlled about her presence—like she was perfectly aware of her body, her space, and how little effort it took to command attention.
Eli didn't stare.
Not exactly.
But his gaze lingered longer than it should have. Not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she felt out of place in a way he couldn't name. Too composed. Too watchful.
She shifted her weight slightly, the movement smooth and unhurried, and for a brief moment her eyes lifted. They passed over him—cool, unreadable—before sliding away again. No recognition. No curiosity.
Still, his chest tightened just a fraction.
He took a slow sip of his drink and forced himself back into the conversation beside him. Someone was talking about internships. Another about travel plans. Eli nodded, threw in a comment, laughed when expected to.
But every now and then, without meaning to, his attention drifted back.
She hadn't moved much. Just small changes—turning slightly, adjusting her grip on the glass, shifting her gaze. She didn't smile. Didn't fidget. Didn't look bored either.
She looked like she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
Eli leaned back against the counter, exhaling quietly through his nose.
Get a grip, he told himself.
It was just a party. Just another face in a room full of them.
Still, the night felt different now. Sharper. Like something had entered the space that hadn't been there before.
And whether he liked it or not, his attention kept finding its way back to her—drawn by a quiet gravity he didn't yet understand.