By the second night, the party had become louder, but Maya had become quieter. Every time the music stopped for a second, she thought she heard crying. She would quickly turn her head, her heart racing, only to realize it was just laughter coming from another room or someone shouting near the water.
And yet she did not go home.
Pride is a strange thing.
Sometimes it keeps people standing.
Sometimes it prevents them from saving what matters.
On the third morning, Maya woke up on a couch with a pounding headache and a terrible weight pressing against her chest. The house smelled of spilled drinks and old smoke. Her friends were asleep. The lake outside looked calm, almost innocent.
She reached for her phone.
Twelve missed calls.
Seven messages.
