The Reunion
1496 Words
Clara
I had been staring at the same c***k on my ceiling for almost forty minutes.
Maybe longer.
Time moves strangely when you spend most of your days rotting in bed.
My room smelled faintly like cold air-conditioning, unfinished laundry, and the vanilla candle I lit three nights ago to convince myself I still had my life together. Clothes were piled on the chair beside my desk. My laptop sat untouched for days. The planner I bought at the beginning of the year because apparently organized people magically became successful people was buried somewhere under a hoodie and old receipts.
I pulled my blanket higher over my face.
My phone buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
I groaned without checking because I already knew who it was.
“Please go.”
Another vibration.
“Just this once.”
Another.
“We already paid for your slot.”
I finally grabbed my phone from beside my pillow and squinted at the brightness.
Group Chat: Day Ones
Mika: If you don’t come tonight, I swear I’ll drag you myself.
Pat: Girl, it’s been YEARS 😭
Leah: Everyone’s going!!!
I stared at the messages with the same dread people probably felt before public executions.
Elementary reunion.
Who even invented those?
Probably people who enjoyed watching others compare achievements over overpriced drinks.
I threw my phone onto my chest and covered my face with both hands.
“No,” I muttered. “Absolutely not.”
Because what exactly was I supposed to say when people asked what I’d been doing lately?
At twenty-two, most people I knew already had jobs, degrees, internships, plans.
Meanwhile, I still felt stuck in the middle of a road with no idea where I was supposed to go.
The worst part?
People used to expect something from me.
Back then, I was that student.
Consistent honor student.
Always prepared.
Always serious.
The girl teachers loved because she submitted projects early and color-coded her notes like her life depended on it.
“Most likely to succeed,” one teacher told my mother once.
Funny.
Because now I couldn’t even decide what I wanted to do with my life.
The reunion was exactly the kind of thing I avoided now.
Too many questions.
Too many successful people.
Too many reminders that somewhere along the way, everyone kept moving while I stayed exactly where I was.
My phone rang suddenly.
Mika.
I declined it immediately.
A second later, she called again.
I answered with a tired groan. “What?”
“Get dressed.”
“No.”
“You’re going.”
“I’d rather pass away peacefully in my bed.”
“You’ve been in that bed for three days.”
“Four.”
“That’s not better!”
I closed my eyes. “Mika, I don’t want to go.”
Her voice softened slightly. “Why?”
I laughed once.
Because I was embarrassed.
Because somewhere between graduating high school and becoming an adult, I lost whatever certainty everyone else seemed to have.
Because every time someone asked what I was doing now, I felt like a failure trying to answer politely.
“I just don’t feel like socializing,” I said quietly.
“You never feel like socializing.”
“Exactly.”
“You need human interaction.”
“I have you guys.”
“You reply once every seven business days.”
“That’s still communication.”
Mika sighed dramatically. “Listen carefully. You are showering, putting on something pretty, and coming tonight.”
“I don’t even know what to wear.”
“That red dress.”
My eyes narrowed. “How do you remember my clothes better than I do?”
“Because unlike you, I pay attention.”
I sat up slightly. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s too much.”
“It’s literally knee-length.”
“It’s fitted.”
“You have a body. Congratulations.”
I dropped backward onto my mattress with a groan.
“Mika...”
“No excuses. We’re picking you up at seven.”
Then she hung up.
I stared at the ceiling again.
I really hated my friends.
At exactly 6:43 PM, I stood in front of my mirror wondering if it was too late to fake my own death.
The red dress hugged my waist softly before falling around my thighs in smooth satin folds. It wasn’t revealing, but it still made me feel overly perceived.
Like people would look at me too long.
My brown hair fell in loose waves around my shoulders, slightly messy no matter how much effort I put into fixing it. My eyes looked bigger tonight because of the eyeliner Mika forced me to wear during one of our “self-care interventions.”
And my mouth.
Pouty.
That was the word people always used.
“You always look annoyed,” my cousin told me once.
I wasn’t annoyed.
My face just naturally looked like I was judging everyone.
I grabbed my perfume and sprayed once against my wrists and neck.
The girl staring back at me looked pretty enough.
That was the strange thing.
People always told me I was pretty.
But insecurity didn’t care about beauty.
You could look fine on the outside and still feel completely lost underneath.
The doorbell rang.
I nearly screamed.
“Coming!”
Mika took one look at me when I opened the door and grabbed my shoulders dramatically.
“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “You actually listened.”
“I still might throw up.”
“You look hot. Relax.”
Pat peeked from behind her and gasped loudly. “HELLO?”
“Stop,” I muttered immediately.
“No seriously,” Pat said. “If I looked like you, I’d become evil.”
“I already regret coming.”
Mika looped her arm through mine before I could retreat back inside.
“No escape now.”
Unfortunately.
The reunion was held at a rooftop bar downtown.
The moment we entered, noise hit me immediately.
Music.
Laughter.
Glasses clinking.
The smell of alcohol and expensive perfume mixing together in the air.
My stomach tightened.
Too many people.
Too many familiar faces.
“Oh my God!” someone suddenly shouted.
Before I could react, a girl threw her arms around me.
“Clara! It’s been forever!”
I recognized her after a few seconds.
“Jenny?”
“Yes!” She pulled away smiling. “You look amazing!”
“You too.”
And she did.
Everyone did.
That was another terrible thing about reunions.
People arrived looking successful.
Confident.
Finished.
Meanwhile, I still felt painfully unfinished.
“Oh my God, remember when Mrs. Reyes made Clara cry because she got a ninety-eight?”
I groaned instantly. “Please don’t bring that up.”
People laughed.
“Seriously,” another guy said. “You were terrifying back then.”
“She studied during lunch,” Pat added.
“I was twelve,” I defended weakly.
“And still more responsible than me now.”
Everyone laughed again.
I smiled politely.
But deep inside, something twisted painfully.
Because they still remembered me as that version of myself.
The smart girl.
The disciplined one.
The girl who surely had her future figured out by now.
Someone handed me a drink.
I accepted it immediately.
Maybe alcohol would help.
Spoiler alert:
It did not.
At first the conversations were manageable.
Surface-level.
Safe.
Until someone asked the question.
“So what are you doing these days, Clara?”
There it was.
I swallowed slowly.
“A little bit of everything,” I answered vaguely.
“What field?”
I forced a smile. “Still figuring things out.”
“Oh.”
That tiny reaction.
That tiny shift in tone.
Maybe I imagined it.
But it still felt humiliating somehow.
Beside me, someone else started talking about their corporate job.
Another about graduating with honors.
Another about moving abroad next year.
Each conversation felt like tiny paper cuts.
Not enough to destroy me immediately.
Just enough to slowly bleed confidence out of me.
“So what about you?” someone asked Mika.
“I’m suffering in marketing,” she deadpanned.
Everyone laughed.
I took another drink.
Then another.
Then another.
My alcohol tolerance was practically nonexistent because I almost never drank.
But tonight?
Tonight I wanted the noise in my head to stop.
The comparisons.
The disappointment.
The ugly little voice whispering that maybe everyone else had been right to expect more from me.
Maybe I wasted my potential.
Maybe I became the disappointing story adults warned their children about.
I stared quietly into my glass.
“You okay?” Pat asked softly.
“Mmhm.”
“You’re drinking fast.”
“I’m coping.”
“With what?”
I looked slowly around the rooftop.
Everyone laughing.
Everyone glowing.
Everyone moving forward.
“With life,” I answered honestly.
Pat’s expression softened immediately.
Before she could reply, another wave of noise erupted near the entrance.
- Writer
