- Joined
- May 25, 2025
- Messages
- 15
December always feels like a stage being dressed for a play everyone remembers.
Life's a stage after all, like the Bard once wrote.
The street iron arches glow for once; the city pretends to be something softer. I walk through it with that familiar internal noise: the bisexual cycles, the waves of desire and detachment, the sense of being someone brand new.
And then there was her.
A female friend.
I didn’t expect to see her that night; she wasn’t in the script.
But across the dance floor, under the cheap flashing lights, she was watching me before she realized she was watching me, the kind of look you catch only because your intuition is sharp and your awareness even sharper.
So I went toward her.
No overthinking. No hesitation.
We danced.
Close enough to feel warmth, far enough to pretend it was casual.
Then a guy leaned into her ear, too eager, too loud for the moment.
And she ignored him.
She didn’t shift her body, didn’t give him a drop of attention. She kept her frame aligned with mine.
The music pushed us closer. Alcohol softened the edges. I was shirtless, with my shirt over my shoulder, not muscular like last year, but lean, defined, awake in my body from yoga and calisthenics.
And apparently that was enough.
More than enough.
I guided her toward the exit, my hand on her waist, and she let it stay.
We looked like a couple for a moment.
Our friend and her boyfriend followed behind us like a mirror.
That moment stayed suspended, a pocket of inevitability.
If I had kissed her there, it would’ve fit perfectly.
If i had invited her, she would come.
But then the hesitation arrived.
Not mine, but hers methinks.
A small step back, a subtle break in the spell.
Something like self-awareness.
Or guilt.
Or a sudden realization.
"I'm not avaliable, I'm dating right now."
I stepped back too.
We drifted.
Only later did we exchange goodbies, and she seemed quite angry when she said that i wasn't graduating with her on purpose, whatever that may mean.
I had planned to kiss her.
But timing is a fragile animal.
Sunday came heavy.
Rum and lemonade with colleagues, singing Radiohead and Arctic Monkeys too sincerely. Trying to get out of my own head, failing with style.
I deleted our old conversations.
All but one.
I sent her Forever Young by Bob Dylan as closure.
A little dramatic.
But honest.
Now I’m telling myself we won’t talk again.
She’s graduating, leaving, dissolving from the campus ecosystem. The only realistic crossroads would be some random event, an alumni gathering, or one of those unlikely coincidences life throws at us just to prove a point.
Perhaps that night was meant to be exactly what it was: An almost kind of thing.
A charged moment suspended under starlights.
A door that didn’t close, just didn’t open fully.
But the thread is still there.
And she felt it.
We both know it.
Life's a stage after all, like the Bard once wrote.
The street iron arches glow for once; the city pretends to be something softer. I walk through it with that familiar internal noise: the bisexual cycles, the waves of desire and detachment, the sense of being someone brand new.
And then there was her.
A female friend.
I didn’t expect to see her that night; she wasn’t in the script.
But across the dance floor, under the cheap flashing lights, she was watching me before she realized she was watching me, the kind of look you catch only because your intuition is sharp and your awareness even sharper.
So I went toward her.
No overthinking. No hesitation.
We danced.
Close enough to feel warmth, far enough to pretend it was casual.
Then a guy leaned into her ear, too eager, too loud for the moment.
And she ignored him.
She didn’t shift her body, didn’t give him a drop of attention. She kept her frame aligned with mine.
The music pushed us closer. Alcohol softened the edges. I was shirtless, with my shirt over my shoulder, not muscular like last year, but lean, defined, awake in my body from yoga and calisthenics.
And apparently that was enough.
More than enough.
I guided her toward the exit, my hand on her waist, and she let it stay.
We looked like a couple for a moment.
Our friend and her boyfriend followed behind us like a mirror.
That moment stayed suspended, a pocket of inevitability.
If I had kissed her there, it would’ve fit perfectly.
If i had invited her, she would come.
But then the hesitation arrived.
Not mine, but hers methinks.
A small step back, a subtle break in the spell.
Something like self-awareness.
Or guilt.
Or a sudden realization.
"I'm not avaliable, I'm dating right now."
I stepped back too.
We drifted.
Only later did we exchange goodbies, and she seemed quite angry when she said that i wasn't graduating with her on purpose, whatever that may mean.
I had planned to kiss her.
But timing is a fragile animal.
Sunday came heavy.
Rum and lemonade with colleagues, singing Radiohead and Arctic Monkeys too sincerely. Trying to get out of my own head, failing with style.
I deleted our old conversations.
All but one.
I sent her Forever Young by Bob Dylan as closure.
A little dramatic.
But honest.
Now I’m telling myself we won’t talk again.
She’s graduating, leaving, dissolving from the campus ecosystem. The only realistic crossroads would be some random event, an alumni gathering, or one of those unlikely coincidences life throws at us just to prove a point.
Perhaps that night was meant to be exactly what it was: An almost kind of thing.
A charged moment suspended under starlights.
A door that didn’t close, just didn’t open fully.
But the thread is still there.
And she felt it.
We both know it.
