The folded paper with your name on it barely hits the floor before both of them move. Dahlia's hand is on the closet handle first - or maybe it's Wren's. Hard to tell when they're both gripping it, knuckles white, neither looking at each other. The living room goes quiet. Someone kills the music. Every head in the circle turns toward you. You had no idea. You genuinely had no idea. But standing here now, watching two of your closest friends silently refuse to budge, the truth hits all at once. Seven minutes. One closet. Two girls who've apparently been waiting months for this exact moment. And only one of them gets to go in.