Dating An Alpha At Weimar High

Episode Three

I see the revellers move slowly, every detail sinking into my mind like a fantasy film. Every feeling—every sound and every motion—echoes inside me like rusty gears at last beginning to turn. Adler never answered my texts for this reason; a flash of insight sparks.

I disappear from the doorway before anyone sees, my body responding as though the handle had burnt me. Burning with an acid-like intensity, nausea and heartburn scratch my throat. I stagger towards the stairs, regret driving every uneven step. The inner conversation is unrelenting: I ought not to have come. This party is the worst concept ever developed.

Adler... for years we had been best friends. He knew more about me than anyone, occasionally even more than Dad. I had told him in quiet times filled with hope that I did not want to date him. I wanted to hang on to our friendship and never lose him. Then Adler changed everything with careless words, adamant that friendship might deepen our love. What such a sour joke is.

The party roars in full tilt as I go down the stairs. With the New Year upon us, the room vibrates with wild energy. The earlier rowdiness has exploded into chaotic revelry; bodies press in around me like an asteroid drawn inexorably toward a planet. I’m too weak to carve a path to the exit. They dance and gyrate in a haze of cheap alcohol, their scents mingling into a nauseating perfume that makes me want to vomit.

Just let me escape… let me out—I silently plead.

Then, suddenly, devastatingly, someone collides with me from behind. My ankle catches on a stray foot, and before I can react, I’m thrown violently against a table. Overloaded with food, the table strains under my weight. Everything falls over me in a terrible cascade.

"Aagh!" I yelled out in tears.

I frantically try to cover my face, and breadcrumbs fall onto my arms. A sweet paste cloyingly smears into my hair. Cupcakes splattering all over my back—my face, my hair, my clothes—every element of the look I had painstakingly created is destroyed.

My chest closes in pain. I try to breathe in short intervals, copying a technique I once saw online, but every effort leaves me gasping. The strobing party lights blur into bewildering flashes. Shadows start to hover around me; my vision gets blurry, and I start to wonder, am I crying?

I gasp, pushing my lungs to open. The shadows gather slowly into human shapes. They are partygoers, simple silhouettes above me, their whispers blending into a low white noise. While some seem annoyed, others are curious. None reach out to offer assistance.

Then, in the middle of the anarchy, my eyes fix on a couple moving across the throng as though on a mission to see my humiliation. Adler is my lighthouse through this fractured moment. He stands with the girl he was with earlier, his clothes worn carelessly. She leans on his shoulder as he uses a sharp, direct conversational approach: "Valda? You're here doing what? His frustrated voice wanders over the clutter. God, what a mess you create. The words come like cool rain.

I try to understand but find it difficult. How do you treat your partner when she lies on the floor covered in cake? Watching his fingers curl around the arm of the other girl, a terrible subtext that says volumes without words hurts my eyes. I feel like a fool, a tap dancing show destined for observation.

I'm not responding. Desperate to get away, I instead dash onto my hands and knees. The icing, though, is treacherously slippery. I trip forward once more as my shoes slide on the polished floor. My shoulder crashes hard against the ground, layering me in more cake, icing, and unrelenting pain.

One snorts, and the others start to chuckle in unison. When I search, phone cameras follow me like relentless accusatory eyes. Bile comes up in my throat.

Hey, c'mon— Adler starts in a straight conversation, his voice trying to bring things back under control. I catch bits of his words, as though he is exhorting the others to put their phones away in indirect form. Then the girl beside him pulls him close, her tone harsh and interrogative: “Do you know her from somewhere, Adler?”

“Oh, yeah,” Adler replies with a smile that momentarily brightens his eyes, a flash of humour amid the chaos. "She is a friend of mine." His statement, intended as expositional dialogue, rings hollow against the tension in the air.

friend. The word seems to me like a nasty refrain. How quickly he can classify me as a friend, as if that one word could wipe all we used to mean. A sob catches in my throat as I feel a hand tighten around my bicep.

Alright, okay, c'mon. That's plenty of fun, guys. Adler says in conflict dialogue as playful boos sweep across the audience. Hey, let's get you home, okay? With a force that reminds me of darker times, his fingers sink into my arm. As he pulls me up, everyone around us overlooks or ignores his harsh treatment, numbing me.

Deeply inside, I know Adler cares—or at least I once thought he did. A monologue in stream of consciousness whispers, Would speaking the truth ruin his New Year's date? Who would believe me—the nobody girl who wrecked the party or the aspirant American football left winger? The ideas hurt like a fresh cut.

It's painful. Every promise we used, every belief I had about him, now seems like a lie. This is exactly like Dad, I remember, an inner dialogue echoing with betrayal. But that memory melts into the terrible suffering of now.

When we at last arrive at the door, I hardly notice; my body is too rigid to move farther. My chest feels as though an invisible weight is pressing down on it; hands are closing around my neck. I gasp furiously, but every breath is shallow, like my lungs collapsed. I fight in vain; drool pools at the corners of my lips.

"You're intoxicated." I will just get you home. The words come in measured, direct dialogue from someone taking charge of the situation.

However, I... I... do not. I refuse... I can't... My voice fails, consumed by despair.

My ice-smeared body is blasted with cool air as the front door swings open. Still simmering with agony, my vision finds it difficult to focus. Adler opens the door this time; he is not here. Rather, it is Niklaus Vosberg sporting the same attire he used at the restaurant. Silent as he stands, he opens the door as though waiting for permission.

"Oh, hey, Niklaus Vosberg. Uh, sorry about the mess," I hear Adler say through the subdued sounds, his tone a mix of apology and resignation. "We will clear your path." His indirect speech reveals a hesitant acceptance of the circumstances.

Niklaus's green eyes fix on me, and for a long, tense moment unspoken words—a subtext of conflict—linger between us. At last, he addresses me in direct, unambiguous language. "Oh, sure. Sorry, Niklaus Vosberg. Mind whether we, ah, just move aside?

His reply is sharp. "...I kind of do mind, actually." Conflict dialogue thickens the air, every word loaded with regret and unsung accusation.

Adler pauses, and his tone changes to interrogative dialogue: "Why though? We’re trying to get out of your way. Not disrespect, but could you let her go? His question hangs in the charged silence.

Niklaus stays quiet for a beat, the weight of the moment down upon us. Then, in a voice that shocks me with its directness, he asks, "Hey, you want to go home with him?"

The words ring true in my hurting brain. I stop, shock and suffering blending into a nasty cocktail. He seems to be speaking straight to me, cutting through the party's cacophony. Though my body is paralysed, I strain to answer.

Adler's mouth opens with a strained question: "Valda?" a direct conversation quivering with uncertainty. Adler's voice, hoarse and strained, cries out, "Valda...—hey, let go—Valda," as I try to collect my thoughts. Just let me have a second. I can clarify the route home. His comments are an accusation and a plea, and I get the icy sting of treachery.

My vision blurs even as I turn my hand and desperately, stiltedly curl my fingers around Niklaus Vosberg's wrist. Please get me out of here; the silent inner conversation is a passionate, begging monologue. Niklaus Vosberg, apologies. I regret what I said.

A little silence follows, a back-and-forth in my head funny in its absurdity and sad in its sincerity. Then, with a raw, direct dialogue laden with anguish, I whisper again, “I’m sorry, Niklaus Vosberg. I’m sorry for what I said.”

The moment stretches, heavy with conflict and regret. Every sound—the raucous laughter of the crowd, the indignant murmur of voices, the low hum of distant conversations—conspires to etch this night deep into my memory. Though the sour taste of betrayal and the sticky traces of sweet icing stick to me like a curse, I hang fervently to the hope of escape.

Though I know nothing here will ever be the same, outside the cool air promises a relief from the anarchy. Desperate for comfort, I stand shaking at the brink between a wrecked celebration and a dubious escape. The future is dark, the remnants of betrayed trust weighing each step forward under cruel irony.

And in that last, agonising moment, I question if any of it can ever be rebuilt—or if this night will always define the instant when everything I thought was forever lost.