CHAPTER TWO
After the Applause
No one ever talks about what happens after the door closes.
They talk about the shock.
The choice.
The gasp that rippled through the room when I didn't walk toward my boyfriend.
But no one talks about what comes next when the music starts again too loudly, when laughter returns too quickly, when everyone pretends nothing has shifted even though the air feels different.
When we walk back downstairs, the party greets us like a poorly rehearsed play.
Someone cheers. Someone claps. Someone shouts, "That was wild!"
I force a smile that feels brittle, like it might crack if held too long.
The living room looks the same,same flashing lights, same scattered cups, same faces but I feel like I've stepped into a version where I no longer belong.
My boyfriend stands near the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. He's trying to look relaxed, but I know him too well. The tension in his shoulders gives him away.
For a moment, our eyes meet.
Then he looks past me.
The sting surprises me not because I expect forgiveness, but because I didn't expect dismissal. It's as though I've become an inconvenience rather than a person he loves.
I open my mouth to speak.
Nothing comes out.
Someone pushes a cup into my hand. I don't remember taking it. I don't drink from it either. I just hold it, fingers clenched so tightly the plastic bends.
"Girl, you're insane," my friend whispers, half-laughing, half-stunned. "I thought you were joking."
"So did I," someone else mutters nearby.
The words blur together, forming a hum of speculation I'm not meant to hear but can't escape.
Why him?
Was it planned?
Are they?
I tune it out and glance toward the stairs.
He doesn't come back down.
The man from the corner, my boyfriend's uncle disappears into the quiet upstairs hallway and stays there. There's no dramatic exit, no announcement. Just absence.
And somehow, that feels heavier than if he'd stayed.
The game resumes without me.
The bottle spins again. Someone else screams when it lands on them. A new dare is announced, met with laughter and exaggerated groans.
Life moves on with disturbing ease.
I sit on the edge of the couch, suddenly exhausted. My chest feels tight, like I've run too far without stopping to breathe. The excitement that filled the room earlier has drained out of me, replaced by a low, restless ache.
I didn't mean to cause a scene.
I didn't mean to make anyone uncomfortable.
I especially didn't mean to hurt him.
But intentions don't erase impact.
My boyfriend finally turns toward me, expression unreadable. He walks over slowly, stopping just far enough away that his knee doesn't touch mine.
"What was that?" he asks quietly.
There's no anger in his voice. No accusation.
Just disbelief.
I swallow. "It was a dare."
He exhales through his nose, a humorless sound. "With my uncle?"
"I didn't " I stop, unsure how to finish without sounding ridiculous. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking."
"That's the problem," he says, shaking his head. "You didn't think."
The words land harder than he probably intends.
"I didn't do anything," I said quickly. "Nothing happened."
"I know," he replies. "That's not the point."
Silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. Around us, the party continues, but it feels distant, as though we're underwater and everything else exists above the surface.
"You embarrassed me," he says finally.
The statement catches me off guard not because it's untrue, but because it's the first thing he chooses to say.
"I embarrassed you?" I repeat softly.
"Yes." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face. "People are talking."
I look around the room again. At the friends laughing too loudly. At the strangers whispering behind raised hands.
For the first time, it hits me that this moment won't stay here.
It will follow us.
"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for anymore.
He nods once, curtly. "Just… don't do something like that again."
Again.
As if this was a calculated choice rather than an impulsive crack in something already fragile.
He walks away before I can respond, pulled back into a conversation with his friends. Within seconds, he's laughing again, tension erased from his face like it never existed.
I sit there, staring at my hands.
I feel small.
Invisible.
And strangely hollow.
When the party finally ends, it ends quietly. People drift out in pairs and groups, yawning, checking phones, already moving on.
I step outside into the cool night air, grateful for the silence. My friend hugs me quickly, whispering, "Call me later," before disappearing down the street.
My boyfriend doesn't walk me home.
He says he's tired.
I tell him I understand.
The lie tastes bitter.
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
I replay everything,the spin of the bottle, the way the room went quiet, the look in my boyfriend's eyes. I replay the seven minutes upstairs too, though nothing happened.
Or maybe that's the problem.
Because something did happen.
Not between us but inside me.
The quiet question he asked.
The space he gave me to say no.
The way he looked at me like I was a person making a choice, not a spectacle.
It shouldn't matter.
I tell myself it doesn't.
Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under.
The next few weeks pass in a blur.
Life returns to normal or at least the version of normal I'm used to. School, friends, plans for the future. Conversations about graduation. About university. About how lucky we are to be going to the same place.
My boyfriend becomes affectionate again, as if the party never happened. He jokes, holds my hand, talks about our future with easy confidence.
I let myself believe the moment has been buried.
But sometimes, when things go quiet between us, I feel again that sense of being unseen. Like I'm standing next to him instead of with him.
I never see his uncle.
Not at family gatherings. Not at casual visits. It's as though he's been erased from the background of my life entirely.
Part of me is relieved.
Another part is unsettled.
Then the letter arrives.
The envelope is thin, official, heavier than it looks. My name is printed neatly across the front, making my heart race before I even open it.
I read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
Accepted.
Same university. Same intake year.
A laugh bursts out of me, half disbelief, half joy. My hands shake as I clutch the paper to my chest. This is it. Proof that everything is moving forward. That whatever cracks exist can be smoothed over by new beginnings.
I imagine telling him.
His reaction. His smile. The way he'll pull me into a hug and say he knew it would work out.
I don't text.
I want to see his face.
Grabbing my bag, I rush out of the house, excitement bubbling so loudly inside it drowns out every lingering doubt.
This is our future.
Nothing can ruin this.
I don't know yet that the worst surprises don't announce themselves.
They wait.