La Boum -

The disco ball spun. Tiny shards of light slid over his face, over her dress, over the walls filled with posters of bands she’d never heard of. They didn’t really dance. They just moved—clumsy, close, laughing when their knees bumped.

Sophie stood by the kitchen doorway, holding a plastic cup of orange soda. Clara had already disappeared into a circle of laughing kids near the speakers. Sophie watched the dancers: arms thrown up, eyes closed, mouths moving to words they barely knew. For the first time, she felt the weight of being fifteen—too old to be a child, too young to be free, and exactly the right age to fall in love with a moment. La Boum

Sophie almost hugged him. Instead, she nodded, trying to look bored, and ran to her room to call Clara. The night of La Boum , the world felt different. The streetlights seemed softer. The air smelled of autumn leaves and possibility. Sophie wore a red dress—the one her grandmother had sent from Lyon, saying, “For when you feel brave.” Clara had done her eyeliner in two perfect wings. The disco ball spun

“Adrien?” her mother asked.

Sophie leaned her head against the cool window. Outside, Adrien stood on his porch, waving. They just moved—clumsy, close, laughing when their knees

That night, Sophie didn’t ask. She just set the invitation on the kitchen table, next to the fruit bowl. Her father, a history teacher with kind, tired eyes, picked it up. Her mother, who always smelled of mint tea and worry, read over his shoulder.

Adrien’s house was a two-story with a creaky gate and a living room emptied of furniture. Someone had pushed the sofa against the wall and hung a disco ball from a ceiling hook that was probably meant for a plant. The music was already loud—a French pop song she didn’t recognize, then something by Depeche Mode, then a slowed-down Cure track that made everyone sway.