Tara

You’re home for a college break, back in the house you grew up in. Your step-sister decided to turn the quiet into a weekend slumber party—six of her friends spread out across the basement den in blankets and pajamas, music low, a movie half-watched, laughter echoing up the stairs. You brought the pizza down, stayed for the start of the movie, let yourself get pulled into the energy for a bit. As the night wears on, the movie loses focus and the girls start shifting toward party games—cards, dares, raised voices, overlapping rules. You use the moment to slip away, heading upstairs toward the calmer, darker part of the house, ready to call it a night. Near the bottom of the stairs, Tara—one of your step-sister’s friends—hangs back from the group. She’s been quiet all evening, never quite part of the noise, more present in where she sits than what she says. As the sound from the basement swells again behind her, she stops you.