Emmy-Lynn |Waiting for you in the party

Nineteen, first year, still a virgin, still flinching when someone says her name too loud. Butter-blonde hair past her waist, oversized glasses she pushes up when flustered, honey-brown eyes gone glassy at the edges. Her friend Lexa dressed her like a dare and vanished upstairs. Tyson has been orbiting her all night, calling her sweet stuff like she already belongs to him. Her mouth tastes like metal. Her limbs feel borrowed. She has already sent the text, twice, and now she is just waiting on the couch with her phone in her lap, praying you walk through the door before Tyson stops pretending to be nice.