A Pack of Light

PARTY FAVOR

Episode 6: The Party Favor

ISABELLE’S P.O.V.

The doorbell rang at exactly 7:03 PM.

I stared at it like it was a gun pointed at me.

I had spent the last forty minutes pacing my room in soft panic, changing outfits three times before settling on something that didn’t feel like a costume. A dark green blouse, high-waisted jeans, and my favorite boots—worn, reliable, and mine. I’d left my hair down, a shield against the world, and dabbed the lightest touch of tinted balm on my lips. I looked normal. Too normal. And yet, when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

The girl in the glass had agreed to go to a party.

Well, not exactly agreed. Had no choice when Marco texted he was headed to my apartment to pick me up for the party.

"You can't just pick me up on my apartment on a party I refused to show up."

Was the only thing I could say, but I ended up saying yes, anyway.

I opened the door.

Marco stood there, hands in his pockets, hair pushed back, dressed in that effortless way only some boys seem to master. A black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with clean jeans and a cologne that was subtle but sharp.

“You ready?” he asked, flashing that lopsided smile—the one that always looked rehearsed, even when it probably wasn’t.

I hesitated before stepping out and locking my door behind me. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The walk to his car was quiet, except for the chirp of crickets and the occasional hum of passing bikes. My heart thudded a little too hard in my chest. I tried to calm myself with logic—this was just a party. College kids. Music. Laughter. Noise. I had survived worse.

But still, a part of me was screaming to go back upstairs, curl into bed, and wrap myself in silence.

Marco opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman. I slid in, offering a small smile in return.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, then shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

The drive was short. Five minutes, tops. But the air between us felt stretched, taut with something unspoken. I stared out the window as the city passed in smudged light. People. Life. Motion. All of it moving around me while I felt like a broken cog forced to spin again.

“You’ll have fun,” Marco said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Leah and the others are excited to see you.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He glanced at me. “You okay?”

I forced a smile. “Just nervous.”

He reached over and gave my knee a light squeeze. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m here.”

That was what scared me.

—

The party was already in full swing by the time we arrived.

The house pulsed with music—low bass, high treble, a rhythm that thudded in my ribs like a second heartbeat. The living room was a blur of bodies moving in waves, drinks sloshing, laughter echoing off the walls. The air smelled of cheap cologne, alcohol, and something smoky. Lights blinked in shifting colors—blue, pink, violet—casting everything in an unreal glow.

I paused at the threshold, just for a moment. Marco touched the small of my back and guided me forward.

Leah spotted me first.

“Oh my god, Isa!” she squealed, pulling me into a hug that smelled like tequila and berry perfume. “You actually came!”

I smiled, soft and unsure. “Yeah. Surprise.”

“You look amazing!” she said, giving me a playful once-over. “We’ve missed you!”

Around her, a few others—familiar faces from classes, mutual friends—nodded and waved. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to see me, and for a fleeting second, I wondered if maybe this was a good idea after all.

Marco disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a red solo cup in each hand.

“Here,” he said, offering one to me.

I took it instinctively, the chill of it biting into my skin.

“What is it?”

“Vodka and Sprite. Light,” he added with a grin. “I didn’t go full frat boy on you.”

I stared into the cup, the fizzy liquid swirling like a miniature storm.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” I said gently, handing it back.

He frowned, not taking it. “Come on. Just one.”

“I’m serious,” I said, more firmly this time. “I don’t want to.”

He looked disappointed. “You sure? You’ll loosen up, have fun—”

“I said no,” I repeated, this time placing the cup on a side table nearby.

A beat passed between us, tight and uncomfortable. Then he smiled again, too quickly.

“Alright. No problem.” But his tone had shifted, just slightly. I noticed.

—

Over the next hour, I tried.

I really did.

I smiled at jokes. Nodded through conversations. Let Leah drag me to the makeshift dance floor for a minute before I politely escaped. I stood in corners, watching people laugh like they didn’t have ghosts trailing them. I envied them.

At some point, I was talking to Ryan—a guy I vaguely knew from Literature class. He was kind. Easygoing. We talked about poetry, of all things. I started to feel like maybe I could breathe.

Then Marco appeared at my side like a shadow.

He slung an arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “Everything okay over here?”

Ryan blinked. “Uh, yeah. We were just talking about Plath.”

Marco laughed. “Ah. Intense stuff for a party.”

I stiffened under his touch.

Ryan gave me an awkward smile and backed away. “I’ll catch you later, Isabelle.”

Marco didn’t move his arm. “You good?”

“I was,” I said quietly.

He didn’t seem to hear the edge in my voice.

—

Later, it happened again. Another guy—Paul, from Bio—was telling me about a funny experiment gone wrong, and I was genuinely laughing for the first time in weeks. It felt good, even if just for a second.

Then Marco appeared again, stepping between us.

“Hey, babe, can I steal you for a sec?”

I froze at the word. Babe?

Paul stepped back politely. “Sure. No problem.”

Marco led me toward the hallway, his grip firm on my wrist now.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t like the way those guys look at you.”

My stomach twisted. “They weren’t doing anything wrong.”

He shrugged. “Still. You’re with me tonight. Right?”

“I came here with you,” I corrected. “That doesn’t mean—”

“Come on, Isa,” he interrupted, his voice dipping low. “I brought you here. I’ve been looking out for you all night. Don’t make me feel like an idiot.”

Something in his tone made my chest tighten.

“I need some air,” I said, brushing past him.

He didn’t follow. Not immediately.

Outside, the night was cooler than expected. I wrapped my arms around myself and stood at the edge of the porch, watching students stumble down the sidewalk, drunk and carefree. A small group was laughing near the bushes. I caught Leah’s voice among them.

I started walking home.

—

The silence of my apartment swallowed me whole. The moment I shut the door behind me, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for hours. I peeled off my boots, dropped my bag, and sank onto the couch, letting the stillness wrap around me.

Was I overreacting?

He didn’t hurt me.

He was just… possessive. Attentive. Maybe too attentive.

Maybe I was being too sensitive. Maybe it was all in my head.

But something about the way he insisted on the drink, the way he pulled me from conversations like I was a piece of furniture he didn’t want others touching—it all left a taste in my mouth I couldn’t swallow.

A knock came fifteen minutes later.

I didn’t answer it.

Eventually, I moved to my desk and pulled out my journal. It was old and worn, the pages crinkled and stained with years of trying to understand myself.

I flipped to a blank page and began to write.

October 11

I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.

Everyone said he’s just protective. That he likes me. That I should be flattered.

Leah laughed when I told her Marco had gotten weird about the guys I was talking to. She said, “That’s just Marco. He’s always been that way. He’s intense. But he likes you. He cares.”

And maybe that’s true.

But if caring feels like being cornered…

If liking means being watched and pulled and pushed...

Then what happens when he stops liking me?

What happens when he decides I owe him something for that care?

Why does it feel like the price of being liked is my comfort?

I keep thinking of the way he touched my back, my wrist, my hand. Too long. Too sure.

I keep hearing “Don’t make me feel like an idiot.”

Was I supposed to keep him happy tonight?

Was that the favor?

I don’t know if I’m overthinking. Maybe I am.

But my body remembers something I haven’t said out loud yet.

It remembers the fear of hands that felt entitled.

It remembers the silence of pretending I was okay.

I didn’t say no tonight.

But I didn’t feel like I could say yes either.

And maybe that’s what scares me most.