i only threw this party for you

(play “party 4 u” while reading.)

1: getting ready (a.k.a. the delusion stage)

there’s a special kind of silence before a frat party. it’s not peace. it’s preparation.

it’s war.

i’m in front of the mirror, tightest skims top on, black, duh. gold chain catching the room light just right. baggy jeans sitting low. lip gloss, but just a little. enough to look like i didn’t try, even though i absolutely did.

my friends are yelling about uber. someone’s pregaming with tequila, vodka and bad decisions. i’m scrolling through his story again.

he’s already there. of course he is.

my hands are already shaking and i haven’t even had a sip.

2: the party (a.k.a. the scene of the crime, again)

we walk in like we own the place. but i’m only there for one reason.
and the second i see him, my heart drops.

it’s that rush. that brutal, beautiful panic. like a rollercoaster you weren’t ready for.

my chest tightens. i stop breathing for a second.
everything around me goes quiet.

he’s there. white tee. jawline sharp. talking to someone else, of course. smiling. looking too good to be this emotionally unavailable.

i try to look unfazed, like i didn’t just spend an hour getting ready hoping i’d run into him.

but my hands say otherwise. they’re trembling around my cup.
we make eye contact. i smile—soft, careful, practiced.

he nods. doesn’t walk over.

and that’s when charli hits:

“i only threw this party for you…” not literally but in my head..

and god, it feels like she wrote it for this moment. for me. for every time i thought maybe this time he’d choose me.

3: the descent (a.k.a. the emotional soft launch into sadness i flirt with a boy i don’t care about. i laugh too loud. i drink too fast.)

i say “i’m fine” to my best friend when she asks if i’m okay.
he leaves before midnight. doesn’t say bye. i pretend i didn’t notice.

but i always notice.

everyone’s dancing. i’m dancing too.

but only from the neck down.

inside, i’m just replaying every almost-love story that ended at a frat party.

every night i thought this could be something, and it wasn’t.
because no one in college wants to be something. they just want to feel something.

fast. shallow. disposable.

i’m trying to unlearn the idea that being wanted is the same as being valued.

but it’s hard when hookup culture hands out attention like candy and calls it intimacy.

4: the walk home (ft. oversized shirt & oversized sadness)

it’s cold. i’m quiet. my friends are yelling about getting food. i’m nodding, half-listening.

my lip gloss is gone. my skims top smells like beer and disappointment.

i open my phone. no texts. not that i expected one.
charli’s still in my ears. whispering every unspoken thing i was too scared to say.

i know i deserve more.

i do.

but i also know this feeling—this ache—is the only consistent thing about college dating.

so i do what i always do.

walk home. lie about how fun the night was.

tell myself i won’t fall for the next boy who looks at me like i’m magic and treats me like i’m a phase.

(i probably will.)

5: the afterthought

i didn’t throw the party.

but i still showed up like i did.

dressed like i did.

hoped like i did.

so yeah, maybe i only threw this party for him.

but maybe next time, i’ll throw one for me.

with no expectations.

no ache.

no heartbreak in a gold chain.

just me, music, and people who text back.