The Party Fail Protocol

Marcus stood outside Jordan's house, clutching the Ethernet cable like a lifeline. His cousin had sworn this house party would be "lowkey chill" — which, translated from teenager to reality, meant social pandemonium.

Inside, bass thumped against his chest. Marcus spotted Jordan across the room, effortlessly holding court with the varsity crowd. The same Jordan who'd somehow transferred from social zero to hero over summer break. Meanwhile, Marcus was still figuring out how to exist in rooms without feeling like everyone was silently rating his performance.

"Yo, Marcus!" Jordan materialized beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Glad you made it."

"Yeah," Marcus managed. "Would've been here earlier, but my cat, Pancake, decided my charging cable was a toy. Had to hunt down a replacement."

Jordan laughed. "Classic Pancake behavior. Hey, come meet Sarah."

Marcus's stomach dropped. Sarah. The Sarah. The one whose Instagram stories he'd been stalking since September. The one who'd liked his post about that obscure indie band last week and he'd proceeded to overanalyze into a complete personality crisis.

She was standing by the snacks, looking unfairly radiant. Marcus opened his mouth to say something cool. Anything cool.

"So," he heard himself say, "I see you're eating chips. Cool. I mean, who doesn't like chips, right?"

The silence stretched. Sarah blinked at him. Behind her, someone snorted.

"I'm bullshitting you," he tried, because apparently his brain had abandoned him completely. "I mean, not bullshitting. I'm being for real. About the chips."

Somewhere, a cat meowed. No, wait — that was him making a weird noise with his throat while his face burned hot enough to power a small city.

Sarah's lip twitched. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," Marcus squeaked. "Just. You know. Social energy. Depleted. From all the... socializing."

He turned to flee and promptly tripped over the Ethernet cable he'd forgotten he was still holding. It whipped around his ankle like a venomous snake. He faceplanted into someone's red solo cup. Fruit punch everywhere.

The room went quiet.

Then Sarah laughed. Not mean laughter — real laughter. "Oh my god, are you okay? That was spectacular."

Marcus peeled himself off the floor, sticky and humiliated. "I'm just gonna go now. My cat. Needs me."

"Wait," Sarah said. "Here." She handed him her phone. "Put your number in. You owe me a redo on that introduction. Preferably one where you stay vertical."

Later that night, Marcus lay in bed, Pancake kneading his stomach. His shirt still smelled faintly of fruit punch. His phone buzzed.

Unknown number: This is Sarah. The cable guy. 😂

Marcus grinned into the darkness. Maybe social protocol wasn't so different from wrangling cats — messy, chaotic, but sometimes, somehow, worth the scratches.