The rain hadn't let up since morning.
It fell in cold, steady lines across the windshield, blurring the world beyond it. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles bone-white, the wipers squeaking rhythmically like something crying out to be heard. We were late. Very late. And worse—we were the hosts.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath. It was all I could say. All I could think.
The roads shimmered with oil and water, slick and whispering with danger. The car fishtailed slightly around a curve, but I didn't slow down. After the day I'd had—after the fight, after the silence, after she slammed the door behind her—I just wanted to drink until everything inside me went numb.
By the time we got there, the house was already packed. A low, drunken hum of music and voices spilled through the open windows. I didn't greet anyone. I didn't explain. I just walked straight to the pong table and started drinking—cold beer, warm beer, whatever was in reach. I downed cup after cup.
Maybe I wanted to punish myself. Or maybe I thought if I drank enough, I'd forget what she said when I told her I was leaving for college. Or how her eyes didn't follow me when I left her room.
I was supposed to feel excited. First night at California University. First party. First everything. But all I could think about was how badly I wanted to be anyone else.
I caught sight of her in the corner.
The girl in the yellow dress.
She didn't speak. She didn't laugh. She just drank—methodically, like someone keeping count.
Our eyes met.
She tilted her head. Not a smile, not quite. Just enough to say: follow.
And I did.
We didn't hold hands as we climbed the stairs. She didn't ask me where we were going. She didn't stumble in her heels or wait for me to lead. She just walked ahead, hips swaying with mechanical certainty, her dress catching the light like warning tape.
I followed her up to the roof. The air smelled like wet concrete and old smoke. The rain had slowed, but the night was still slick with the weight of something unspoken.
She handed me a bottle. Vodka. I drank without asking.
We didn't talk.
We didn't need to.
The music below pulsed through the house like a dying heartbeat. The party was spreading outside now. I could see shadows gathering on the lawn, phones glowing like ghostly lanterns.
I pulled her close. We moved together. I didn't know her name. I didn't care.
But then—
She slipped.
There was no scream. Just a sound. A sharp, wet crack that echoed once and was swallowed by silence.
Then the screaming began.
For a long time I didn't move. Couldn't.
I was still holding the bottle. My fingers had gone numb.
I stepped back from the ledge and peered down.
She wasn't moving.
People were circling her. Phones out. Hands pressed to mouths.
And then—red and blue. Campus security. Police.
I wiped the bottle clean with my shirt. Every part I could remember touching. The railing. The doorknob. The vodka. My thoughts were loud, panicked.
Had I killed her?
I didn't think so.
I didn't touch her. Not really. But who would believe that?
I went down the stairs slowly, calmly. Opened the door before they could knock. Played dumb. Said I didn't know her.
They covered the body. They asked no questions.
And I said nothing.
Because silence is simpler than guilt.
Because no one saw us go up.
Because if no one knew I was there—
Then maybe none of it happened at all.