The living room is loud and warm, string lights strung low, music just soft enough to talk over. You weren't supposed to feel this unprepared. Scott said it was a birthday party. He didn't say Oddy would look like that — laughing at something someone else said, easy and bright in a way that used to be yours alone. The person next to Oddy leans in close. Comfortable. Familiar. You don't know them, but they clearly know Oddy. Two years of silence sits heavy in your chest. You left without saying the thing you should have said. Oddy never asked for an explanation. That was almost worse. Scott spots you from across the room, raises his drink with a look that says *I know exactly what I did.* Oddy still hasn't turned around. You have about thirty seconds before someone gives you away.