Jake laughs, agreeing it's excessive for a summer home they barely use. "Her dad's some big-shot Wall Street investor, and I think her mom's an interior designer or something."

That explains the imported marble floors and the pristine everything—so untouched it practically screams wealth and careful curation.

Jake turns to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders protectively. "You ready?"

I nod, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm ready for. My heart races beneath my ribs, and something must show on my face because Jake gives me a gentle squeeze.

"Come on," he grins, offering his arm. "Time to show you off."

I link my arm through his, letting him guide me inside. Each step feels like moving closer to something inevitable, my pulse a symphony of anticipation and dread.

5. Specks With Colossal Problems

CHAPTER 5

SPECKS WITH COLOSSAL PROBLEMS

NATE

"There's our boy!" Christian bellows as I stride into the party. The bass thrums through the floorboards, matching my racing pulse. This is the last fucking place I want to be, yet here I am, weaving through a crowd that's slapping my back like I'm some sort of hometown hero.

"About fucking time you showed.” An arm hooks around my neck, pulling me into a headlock that's more aggressive than friendly. "You got it, yeah?"

"Yeah," I mutter, handing over the small bags of weed and pills. The weight of them leaving my pocket doesn't lighten the burden I carry.

"Now it's a fucking party!" Christian shouts, igniting a chorus of cheers around us.

Drink. I desperately need a drink.

The anger and anxiety I've been carrying lately weigh me down like a brick. The panic attacks aren't new, but their frequency is becoming suffocating. The weed and pills are my crutch, dulling the chaos inside just enough so I can stand to be in places like this, surrounded by people who feel more like cardboard cutouts than actual humans.

Then there's Nora.

She's been haunting my thoughts more than I'm willing to admit, and it's not just because of our awkward encounter earlier. It's been over a year since we last spoke, but she's lived rent-free in my mind for years. Every thought of her is tangled with anxiety and guilt. I shouldn't care that she's here—I knew she would be. Yet within fifteen minutes of sharing the same air as her, my composure is completely shot to shit.

Her eyes carried a depth of pain that mirrored my own, an infinite cosmos of unspoken words. She used to burn with fire, and now she's cloaked in ice, but beneath it, the embers still smolder. Life has hardened her, a feeling I know all too well.

Everything feels different because it is.