The message pinged in just as she was about to crash into her comfort blanket. The group chat was alive again—the old society gang. A swarm of fifteen names that once echoed through staircases, birthday parties, and streetlight-lit games of hide and seek. The message was casual, almost warm.
"Hey guys! New Year's at mine again this time—bonfire, food, music. Everyone in?"
Veronica stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
She hadn't seen most of them in almost a year. They all stayed in touch, technically. The group chat had never died. Memes flew in occasionally, so did random birthday wishes, "guys look at this memory" throwbacks, and the occasional dramatic gossip update.
But actual seeing them? That was a different story.
The last time she did was when Sherlock was still around. Sherlock, her childhood partner-in-crime, the one who'd moved to the US mid-teenage years, taking with him the last sense of realness that group had. Without him, meetups started thinning out. Or maybe it was her. Maybe she started thinning out.
She had promised to come "next time" to at least five previous meetups. School happened. Coaching classes happened. Anchoring events, competitions, projects—life kept piling up like unopened texts. And they kept inviting her. Sweetly. Softly. Like they knew she was fading but didn't want to call her out on it.
Now here it was again—New Year's invite. A chance to resurface.
She sighed and looked around her room. Books sprawled like tired soldiers across her bed. A half-read poetry journal on the windowsill. Her soft fairy lights glowing dim yellow. A scented candle burned low beside the laptop where she had just shut a tab full of physics problems. Even the thought of pulling on party clothes made her want to groan into a pillow.
She typed slowly:
Veronica:"Hey, thanks for inviting. But I think I'll stay in this year. Hope you all have fun <3"
She hit send before she could overthink. That was that. No drama, no elaborate excuses.
Her phone buzzed again—this time, a different chat. Sherlock had replied to a meme she'd sent hours ago.
Sherlock:"This is the most Veronica thing ever."Veronica:"Accurate. Also, skipping NYE party again. I think they've accepted I'm a ghost now."Sherlock:"The mysterious girl who disappeared into academics and late-night spirals. Iconic."Veronica:"More like 'the girl whose calendar eats her soul and dreams'."
She smiled faintly. Only Sherlock really got it.
It wasn't that she didn't want to see the old gang. It was just—she didn't have it in her to perform nostalgia tonight.
She pulled the blanket up to her chin, lights still on. A new message blinked on her screen.
Vance:"Doing anything for New Year?"
She stared at it for a second. Then typed:
Veronica:"Staying in. Me, my blanket, and maybe some emotional music. You?"
Vance:"music"
She laughed. Somewhere between regret and relief, she replied:
Veronica:"At least we're both consistent."
And just like that, the idea of being alone on New Year's didn't sting as much.
Maybe some people celebrated with lights and noise and glitter. Maybe she just needed the quiet hum of her lamp, the occasional ping of a message, and the peace of knowing she wasn't alone in staying away.
Not forgotten. Just… paused.