The music is quieter now, whatever's still playing. Someone turned it down an hour ago and nobody complained, which is how you know the party has entered its final country.
Look who's left. Four of you, maybe five, on the floor and the couch and that one kitchen chair somebody dragged into the living room. There's a bowl of chips gone soft. A candle still going. The good talk, the real talk, the kind that only shows up after everyone with somewhere to be has gone home.
You are so tired. You're already half-writing the tomorrow in your head, the water you should drink, the mess by the sink. Put that down for a second. I'm asking gently.
Notice the boy on the floor with his back against the couch, laughing at something with his whole face. You lose touch with him. Not for any reason. Life just widens, the way it does, and one day you realize you can't remember the last time. I would give a great deal to hear him laugh like that again. You have it right now, for free, and you're thinking about the chips.
Here is what I know that you don't yet. This is not the leftover part of the night. This is the night. The part you'll keep.
So stay a little longer. Let the candle burn down.
Ask him the next question.