Beth danced like she had no bones. Natasha moved with effortless confidence, laughing when someone bumped into her. I followed, slower at first, then freer, my body remembering that it didn’t exist solely to be productive.
I caught my reflection again in a mirrored column—wavy hair loose around my shoulders, curves framed by a top Beth had insisted I bring.
I looked good.
But I still wasn’t used to that part.
To being … noticeable.
Natasha caught me looking and smiled knowingly. “Stop it.”
“What?”
“You do that thing where you forget you’re hot.”
I snorted. “I am not.”
Beth spun in, pointing dramatically. “False. Objectively false.”
“Can we not make this a thing?” I said.
“It’s already a thing,” Beth said. “You’re just late to the party.”
I shook my head, laughing, and turned back to the music.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about what I should be doing. Or who I was supposed to become. Or whether I was wasting time.
I was just here.
And for now, that felt like enough.
The night blurred the way good nights always did—not into chaos, but into something soft around the edges.
At some point, Beth lost her shoes.
At another, Natasha was laughing with a group of women from New Jersey, patiently reassuring them that the humidity wasn’t trying to kill them—it just required surrender.
I danced. Really danced. Not the careful sway I usually defaulted to, but loose and laughing and unbothered. I let my hair stick to the back of my neck. Let my hips move without apology. Let my body take up space.
It felt rebellious in a quiet, personal way.
We migrated—bar to bar, drink to drink—Charleston unfolding around us like it was complicit in our plans. Cobblestone streets warm under our feet. Gas lamps flickering like they were in on the joke. Laughter echoing down narrow alleys that felt too charming to be real.
At some point, our night tilted in a new direction and we followed it to The Sound Barn—the kind of place Charleston locals talked about with a mix of affection and pride. Dark, close,and vibrating with live music, it felt less like a venue and more like a shared secret.
The air was thick with sound and sweat and history, the stage just high enough to matter, the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder like everyone had agreed to be part of the same moment. Beth grinned the second we stepped inside.
“This,” she said, voice already lifted by the music, “is much more my speed.”
Natasha laughed. “At least, now we’re somewhere that expects chaos.”
The bathroom line was long and packed with women who instantly felt like best friends. Compliments flew freely—about outfits, hair, eyeliner skills.
A girl in a sequined top grabbed my arm. “You are stunning. Like, if I looked like you, I’d be unbearable.”
I blinked. “Oh. Thank you?”
Beth leaned in. “She knows. She just pretends she doesn’t.”
