The day has finally arrived.

I really don't know why I'm this nervous. Usually, I leave all the tedious work to Jenny when it comes to my crushes, relying on her smooth talk to get me a chance. Cowardly, I know. But when you've lived your life ignored by the opposite gender, you tend to need all the help you can get.

But today will be different.

The clothes in my closet tell a different story, however. Gray, gray, gray, black, and oh, my God, more gray. What was I thinking shopping for these clothes?

Jenny swings by my apartment some time after six, all dressed up and ready to go. We arrive at the house minutes later, when the moon is just about done taking the sun's place. It's a home almost as big and furnished as Colt's, except whereas Colt's is a modern model, this one was constructed to resemble a suburban design. Money sure does talk, huh.

There are others inside, but not many. Jenny wasn't exaggerating about this being a little kickback. We meet the girl in charge of the place, Lisa, who greets us with nothing but warmth.

"Jennifer, thank God you're here." She gives Jenny a hug. "I was starting to lose my mind with all the ruckus inside."

"That's why I came as soon as I could." Jenny tells her, completing the embrace. Then she points my way. "And this is my friend, Dalia."

Lisa takes my hand. "Hi, welcome. It's a bit loud, but don't mind it. That's just Trace."

I hear something between a scream and a holler somewhere in the house. I'm guessing that's Trace.

We're ushered first into the living room where a video game competition currently takes place. That's when I hear the holler again, from a boy with dark hair and a hoodie with our school's logo on it.

"Game over, fuckface!" He tells his opponent, arms up as a sign of victory. So that's Trace.

Luckily enough, the tour doesn't end there but in the den, where most of the gathering is. I count seven people present, all with a cup of what I know must be alcohol. A gathering between college students without liquor is blasphemy.

But the only person I care about isn't here. Shane is absent.

I try not to let the disappointment win, but it ends up doing so. "He's not here." I whisper to Jenny.

She checks some detail on her phone. Whether it's the time or a text, I have no clue. "I think he's just late. He said he'd be here."

I take her word for it and push the disappointment toward the back of my mind. Once we've settled into place, Trace and his video game buddy join us, along with Lisa who has her hand around some guy's back. I'm guessing her boyfriend.

Then we're all forced to listen to Trace brag about his position on the football team. "So it's, like, down to the final second, right. And James throws me the ball because I'm their last chance. I run so fast, I'm sure there's a trail of burning grass behind me. I mean, the other team doesn't see me coming at all! That's how fast I was running. And then, of course, I scored the last touchdown."

He just keeps going on and on and on and on. I give Jenny a look which she returns with a shrug. Someone muzzle this guy.

Trace takes a swig from his beer bottle. Then he looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. "The fan, man. It just keeps spinning."

How about I keep spinning my neck until it snaps? I'm so exhausted listening to this guy.

But thankfully, I'm saved, because a new visitor joins us. Shane. Turns out he really was late.

He takes a seat across from Jenny and I, while I struggle to come up with an opener. But Shane beats me to it. "It's you. From that night."

I try laughing, but it comes out as a nervous chuckle. "Indeed, it is."

"You two know each other?" Jenny asks.

"Sort of." Says Shane. "We ran into each other at the house party last week." Then he smiles at me. "No offense, but I thought you were drunk."

"Oh, she was." Jenny says, laughing.

My face grows hot. She's not wrong, but I wasn't drunk at the time of our encounter. This already isn't going too good.

Still, I try. I try because today is supposed to be different.

"I hear you play basketball." I ask Shane, loud enough.

He nods. "You could say it's my life."

"Yeah," Jenny adds. "He plays as a point guard."

I have absolutely no clue what that is. But this makes for a perfect conversation, doesn't it? "So how do you-"

"He's a very good one at that." Jenny interjects, smiling at Shane. "I saw your last game. You were good."

Shane shrugs with a cheeky smile. "I usually don't like to brag, but."

Where the hell is the definition of point guard when you need it? But something tells me it would have been useless anyway, because the conversation between Shane and Jenny continues on. Without me. Even when I try throwing in some thoughts and opinions.

He won't even look at me.

"I'm gonna go get something to drink." I tell the two, not really caring if they hear.

"Oh! Can you get me one?" Jenny asks.

I give her a smile. "Sure."

The table is towards the back, away from all the chatter and festivities. I'm not quite sure which drink I want, but my options aren't that varied. All there really is is vodka, tequila, and more fucking vodka.

Jeez, what are these people, fucking drunkards? I fill the red solo cup with some fruit punch, which is the only non-alcoholic beverage, and top it off with a dash of tequila.

I'm on Jenny's own cup when I catch a glimpse of her and Shane, who has moved to my seat, laughing and hollering and living it up. He even whispers something in her ear, and she gives him a playful pat across the shoulder. Oh, please. It couldn't have been that funny.

It's then I realize how tight my chest has turned, how lumpy my throat has grown, how much my skin is steaming.

How blurry my eyes have become.

I need to breathe. I need air. Space. I don't mean to drop the drink so carelessly; it just slips from my grasp and lands in the punch bowl. Then I'm rushing out the back door towards the pool area.

It feels like I'm being torn to shreds, like I've been stuffed into a canon and blasted off. God, I really can't breathe. I try and try and try, but I'm losing. The heat is clawing at me, suffocating. Keeping me from being rational. So much so that I don't think twice about knocking down the tray of drinks on the table.

Now I'm just crying. Sobbing. Weeping. That's all I ever do, isn't it? It's all starting to grow rather old, these tears. These conflicting feelings. When will it ever stop?

I'm so caught up in my own misery that I don't notice the shadow in the corner, under the cabana, laying so still I almost mistake it for a mannequin. But then it moves, and I nearly fall into the pool.

"Jesus Christ, you're everywhere." I say, clutching my chest. It really does feel like it's about to explode.

Colt doesn't say anything, just bookmarks his book and sets it aside. Although, it seems like he stopped reading a while ago.

I try fixing my hair, gathering myself together. "You didn't happen to see all of that, did you?"

"You mean your tantrum?" He asks. "No, I didn't."

Great. I can't even have a moment of weakness to myself. Who invited this freak anyway?

I'm beat. I need rest. Maybe a little soaking won't hurt. I take a seat at the pool's edge and sink my feet into the water, a bit at ease from the coolness. It's relaxing, it brings me calm. But not much because there's a murderer a couple feet away from me.

Colt doesn't pay me much mind. In fact, it seems like I really did intrude on him and his time. And I don't know what it is, perhaps it's the fatigue from this entire evening, but I need some form of release. So I just start blabbing.

"This night was supposed to be different. It was supposed to go exactly how I planned in my head. I came here so I could take that leap, take the lead." I sigh. "But it was the same. Always in Jenny's shadow. Always drowning in the background. Always trying to poke my head through the window."

These are emotions I've always avoided coming to terms with; this bitter side of myself. But this night has taught me one thing: it is never wise to bottle up feelings. Especially the one that's currently tearing me up the most, the one I've tried the hardest to avoid facing.

"I'm not even sure when it started. Maybe it was when we first met, or when Michael asked her out, but," I take a deep breath. "I'm jealous of my own best friend."

I don't know why I'm confessing all of this to a murderer, one I'm not even sure is listening. But maybe that's exactly the reason why. I'm not expecting much judgement from someone who's taken lives.

I sigh. "I'm a terrible person, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are."

That's not . . . exactly what I was hoping to hear.

Colt does something unexpected. Something I wasn't even sure he was capable of. He laughs. "You're very funny. You envy those who have what you want, but instead of making an effort to better yourself, all you do is complain."

I don't know what to say. What's even more vexing is the satisfaction on Colt's face. But I know the only reason I'm annoyed is because he's made me speechless. He's making me think on a level deeper than I've ever cared to delve.

Colt's right. I'm bitter because I'm jealous. I'm jealous because they have what I want. Yet, I don't put in any effort. And I know it's because I'm terrified of failure, terrified of not getting the response I want, terrified of even trying.

And because, without knowing when, I'd already given up on life.

What do you do with a life that's abandoned you?

I stopped trying years ago, back when I thought that if I kept believing in a better tomorrow, then surely things would change. But it just never got any better. Maybe my birth was a mistake. Maybe I really wasn't supposed to exist at all. After all, why bring a life into this world just to forsake it?

So I stopped giving life a chance altogether.

And look where that's landed me. A sad, pathetic, bitter, judgmental loser who craves validation.

I just want my life to not suck.

My head is killing me. I can't tell if it's from the tears or the entirety of this evening. But I keep on talking. "Life is just one big paradox, isn't it? Completely based on luck. But I've just realized something: we're all going to die someday. So this," I gesture around the pool area. "None of this matters. From now on, I'll just do whatever I want, even if that means jumping into a tank of sharks. Because at least it will be my choice to make."

There's really no use waiting on life to get better, is there? And I'm sick of always wishing, always hoping, always wondering, when I have it within myself to make it all a reality. I just wish I'd known this earlier.

I don't hear much from Colt, so I turn to him just to make sure he's still there. And he is, but he has this look in his eyes, something besides emptiness. It's much softer, warmer. So . . . unlike him.

I make a face. "What?"

He smiles, and I swear it's the first time I've seen him so genuine. "Nothing."

The door then opens, and out walks Trace with a bottle of beer. I think he's had one too many seeing as he keeps swaying. Or maybe he's about to get a concussion. I hope it's the latter. "Colt, my guy, there you are. We've been looking for you."

As a response, Colt grabs his own bottle of beer, which seemed to have spawned from thin air, and takes a swig of it. Then he heads for Trace who throws an arm over his shoulder.

Before they both leave, however, Trace leaves me one last message. "And tell your friend to get a room. She's all over Shane."

There goes the knife in my chest again. But unlike previously, I'm much more successful digging it out. Misery does not feel good; I should stop wallowing in it.

So I take a deep breath in, and upon exhaling, I let the feeling go. Because for the first time in forever, I've realized that I do want more out of life.