The bass hit me as I stepped into the club, vibrating through the soles of my shoes. The lights were a mess of neon, flashing and fading, cutting through the haze of smoke and chatter. It was the usual chaos—people scrambling to lose themselves, to become part of something they could never quite grasp. I was here because it was expected, not because I had a need for it. Same place, same faces, same empty indulgence.
My sister had already disappeared, swept away by some random guy, no doubt. It was a pattern. Riri would latch on to anyone who gave her the attention she craved, only to discard them once the shine wore off. She needed distractions. I didn't. I was just here because it was convenient.
I slid up to the bar, taking a seat like I belonged here—like I belonged anywhere. The bartender handed me my gin and tonic without a word, but I caught the hint of a smile in his eyes. I didn't need to smile back. I wasn't here to make friends. I took a slow sip, letting the sharpness of the alcohol cut through the fog in my mind. It worked, numbing just enough to keep me from thinking too much.
But tonight, there was something in the air that didn't quite fit. The music seemed off, the laughter from across the room too forced. I wondered if this was how Riri had felt after that breakup, like the noise of everything around you couldn't drown out the emptiness inside.
I scanned the room, letting my gaze slip over the usual suspects—the wannabe partygoers and the people who thought a night out would fix them. Then I saw him.
He wasn't anything special, not really. Tall, probably a little over six feet, with dark brown hair that looked intentionally tousled, and a body that made him stand out in the crowd. But it wasn't his looks that caught my attention. It was the way he moved—like he knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. There was a confidence in him that was hard to ignore, the kind that only comes when someone knows exactly how to play the game.
I watched him for a moment longer, letting the image of him settle. He walked through the crowd like it didn't even matter, his eyes scanning but never really landing. That intrigued me.
He came up to the bar, ordering a rum and cola with a soft Canadian accent that lingered like a quiet invitation. His eyes flicked toward mine, and for a brief moment, I caught the faintest hint of recognition—like he knew exactly what I was. It wasn't something I'd felt often.
"Mind if I sit here?" His voice was smooth, almost too casual. But I could see through it. It wasn't an innocent question. He was already deciding what this moment would be, how I would fit into his night.
I didn't answer immediately. I wasn't interested in playing by anyone's rules but my own, but there was something about his presence—something that suggested he wasn't as simple as he looked. "Sure," I replied, more curt than I intended.
He slid onto the stool next to me, his posture lazy but deliberate. I didn't react to the way he immediately settled into my space. I wasn't easily rattled, and I wasn't about to let anyone make me feel anything I didn't want to. He didn't need to know that, though.
"Kiel," he said, introducing himself like it didn't matter whether I cared or not.
"Keiyi," I replied, keeping my voice flat. I didn't offer any more than that.
"Kiel and Keiyi," he mused, as if to savor the sound of our names together. He leaned in a little, the barest hint of interest lighting his eyes. "You from around here?"
I shrugged, nonchalant. "I've been here for a while," I said, keeping things vague. Let him think what he wanted. People always did. "How about you?"
"Born here," he replied easily, his gaze wandering across the bar as if it didn't matter much. "But I spent most of my life in Canada. My mom remarried when I was young."
I raised an eyebrow, just enough to show I was listening, but not enough to show I was invested. "A lot of moving around," I said, almost bored.
He chuckled lightly, then met my eyes again. "Yeah, I guess. I never really felt at home in either place, you know? But you get used to it."
I didn't know if I wanted to feel anything about that. I didn't care, not really. But I understood the game well enough to know that his words were a lure, meant to test me, to see how much I'd bite. He was looking for connection, some way to make me see him as more than just another face in the crowd.
I tilted my head slightly. "Yeah. I guess you're always in-between." The words fell from my lips without much thought. I was already bored of this conversation.
He smiled, a little too knowingly. "Maybe. Maybe that's just life." His eyes held mine for a moment, too steady, too sure.
I looked away first, shifting my drink in my hand, but I wasn't done. Not yet. I had to see how far he'd go.
"You know," he started again, and I could hear the shift in his voice—softer now, like he was sharing something deeper. "I think places like this—places full of chaos—help people feel like they aren't so lost. Everyone's always looking for something. But sometimes, it's when you stop and look at everything around you that things start to make sense."
I gave him a flat smile, like I had all the answers. "I'm not lost." I said it like a fact. "I know exactly where I am. And right now, that's enough."
Kiel gave me a little smirk, the kind that made me think he didn't believe me but wasn't about to challenge me on it. He didn't have to. I knew exactly what I wanted from tonight—and it didn't involve anyone trying to read me.
I stood slowly, my eyes flicking toward the dance floor. "You coming?" I asked, already moving toward it. No hesitation, no second thoughts. I wasn't giving him a choice.
He watched me, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he got up with that same steady grace. "Why not?"
We moved into the crowd, my body already swaying to the music. I didn't care who was around me, who was watching. I wasn't here to lose myself in the noise like everyone else. I was here to own it.
The lights blurred as I felt his presence behind me, the subtle pressure of his hand at my back guiding me. I knew what this was. He didn't have to spell it out. I didn't need him, but I knew how to use him.
We danced, not together but in sync. He wasn't the distraction, he was the tool—and I would use him as I pleased.
Just another game. Just another night.
The crowd surged around us, bodies pressing close, the noise a constant hum over the pounding beat, but it all became irrelevant. It was like we had carved out our own little space amidst the chaos, an invisible boundary that kept everyone else at bay. We moved together, the rhythm between us steady, and though the music blasted louder with each drop, I barely registered it. Kiel's eyes met mine, a shared understanding there, an unspoken connection that made everything else fade further into the background.
Words weren't necessary. The rhythm between us said it all—a pulse that mirrored the way we flowed, effortlessly in sync. Every touch, every subtle shift of his hand near mine, felt deliberate, not rushed. Time itself seemed to loosen its grip, stretching out the moment like it belonged to us and no one else. The flashing lights, the drunken laughter, the sea of people stumbling through their own versions of the night—it was all distant, like it was happening somewhere else.
I didn't question it. I didn't need to. The simplicity of the moment—this unexpected alignment—was soothing, grounding in a way I hadn't anticipated. We were both strangers, yet it was like we'd known each other for much longer, as if we were the only two who truly understood how to exist in this madness.
As the song wound down, we slowed, breathless, the easy rhythm of the night still lingering between us. We were still close, our hands brushing lightly, the space between us minimal, but the world outside felt so far removed.
Kiel broke the moment, his voice quiet against the noise. "I'm glad I talked to you," he said, his tone thoughtful, like it mattered more than he was letting on. "I wasn't expecting this. A conversation, I mean."
"Me neither," I said, a small, knowing smile curling at my lips. "But I'm glad you did."
For once, the usual weight of the crowd didn't seem as overwhelming. Kiel's presence, steady and unobtrusive, made everything feel more grounded—like I was part of something that wasn't just a distraction.
After a couple more drinks and easy, flowing conversation, Kiel glanced at me again, the smallest hesitation in his eyes. "Look, I know it's late," he said, running a hand through his tousled hair, "but my place isn't far from here. If you want, you can crash there. I'll take the couch. It's better than dealing with the chaos outside right now."
I studied him for a moment, gauging whether it was worth it. His presence was genuine, steady—a rare quality. I could prolong this connection for a little longer.
"Alright," I said softly, my smile subtle. "As long as you're serious about the couch."
His chuckle was low, a little self-aware. "Completely. You have my word."
I didn't need to question it. Not really. After all, what's a little more control in a world that's already spinning out of it?
---
The next morning, I woke to soft light filtering through the blinds. Blinking, I took in Kiel's room—a quiet, minimal space with gray walls and a few abstract paintings. He was beside me, still under the comforter, one arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling as if lost in thought. He must have joined me during the night, but it felt effortless, as if the moment had simply evolved into this.
When he noticed I was awake, he smiled, but it wasn't an over-the-top expression—just something gentle and casual. "Hope you don't mind. The couch wasn't as comfortable as I thought."
I shrugged, a small, quiet smile curling at my lips. "It's fine. Actually… it's nice."
We lingered in silence for a while, the calm morning a stark contrast to the usual noise of the world outside. The hum of the city was barely a whisper, as if it was happening somewhere far away. A part of me wanted to stretch this moment out, savor it, keep it uncomplicated. But I knew better than to cling to something that wasn't mine to hold.
Eventually, Kiel's gaze shifted to one of the paintings above the bed. "What do you think of that one?" he asked, nodding toward a piece painted in dark strokes with bursts of bright color. "It reminds me that life can be messy but still make sense."
I studied the chaotic lines and splashes of color. "It's like life's contradictions," I said quietly. "Dark and light, messy and beautiful. It's how I feel about my own life right now."
Kiel's curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated, but something about his calm interest made it easy to respond. "I'm studying legal management. It's practical, stable… but I've always wanted to pursue performing arts. It's something I keep to myself. People say it's unrealistic, but it's what I love."
He nodded, his expression softening. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to follow your passion. It takes courage to admit it."
His words landed somewhere deeper than I expected, but I didn't let it show. Courage, maybe. But also vulnerability, and that was something I wasn't quick to embrace. Life has taught me to keep control, to stay composed.
"We're both balancing between expectations and what actually makes us feel alive," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "Maybe it's like that painting—messy now, but it might come together in a way that makes sense."
I didn't believe that entirely, but his presence was enough to make me want to. I wanted to feel grounded, like I wasn't constantly caught between paths that didn't belong to me. His steadiness, his way of being here without pushing, was grounding in a way I couldn't deny.
I turned to him, my gaze steady. "If you could do anything, without any expectations, what would it be?"
He thought for a moment, his expression distant. "Acting. I love the idea of stepping into different lives, different perspectives. But I haven't told anyone until now."
I smirked, the smallest bit of encouragement creeping into my voice. "You'd be good at it. You've got a presence. Maybe try it on the side—it might bring the balance you're looking for."
He gave me a soft, thoughtful smile, as if hearing the possibility for the first time. "Maybe. Talking to you made me realize it's okay to want more."
We lapsed into silence again, the weight of our conversation hanging between us. The calm felt strange but welcome. I wasn't used to being so open, to letting someone else glimpse the gaps in my life.
"I don't know what I'm doing with my life," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted strange, but they felt necessary. "I feel like I'm stuck between what I'm supposed to do and what I really want."
Kiel's gaze softened, his voice calm. "It's okay to feel lost. The hardest part is admitting it. But if you're not sure where you're going, maybe that means you have the freedom to choose something different."
His words echoed, settling deeper than I wanted to admit. I had been so focused on meeting other people's expectations, on fulfilling a role I never chose for myself, that I'd forgotten I could change. Maybe it wasn't too late.
We let the silence stretch between us, a quiet acceptance. The world outside was still waiting, but for now, it felt distant.
Eventually, Kiel spoke again, breaking the tension. "How about we grab breakfast? I'm not ready to dive into the day just yet."
I nodded, grateful for the delay. "Yeah, breakfast sounds good."
In the kitchen, he moved with easy confidence, pulling out ingredients from the fridge, making something simple but comforting. The smell of eggs sizzling filled the space, mingling with the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
I watched him for a moment, still lost in my thoughts. The conversation earlier had given me a strange sense of calm, but it also left me feeling conflicted. Kiel's words about following passions and the space between expectations and desires… I wanted to trust him, but I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was just a temporary comfort. People said a lot of things, things that made them seem understanding, but how much of it was real? How much was just the moment?
Kiel turned to me as he set the plates on the table. "Here you go," he said, smiling like he didn't expect anything more than simple gratitude.
I smiled back, but it didn't reach my eyes entirely. "Thanks. It looks good."
We sat down to eat, the morning light soft and quiet in the kitchen. The conversation drifted again, and Kiel seemed to sense my distance, but instead of pressing, he shifted the topic to safer ground.
"Have you ever been in a serious relationship?" he asked casually, cracking an egg open.
I paused, setting my fork down for a moment. "Not really," I said, my tone light. "A few situationships, but they never worked out."
Kiel raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by 'situationships'?"
I shrugged, my gaze drifting out the window. "I just never really trusted the people I was with. Or maybe I wasn't sure of myself. It was always one-sided, like I had to take charge, make things work. It's like I ended up being the 'man' in the relationship. And I don't know… maybe I'm not cut out for that."
Kiel's expression softened, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. Empathy? Sympathy? I couldn't tell.
"I get it," he said quietly. "That's how I felt in my last relationship. I ended up in something unhealthy. The more I tried to hold onto it, the more I lost myself."
His words were calm, but they hit deeper than I expected. I could see the weight in his eyes. I knew that feeling—the weight of giving and giving until it felt like you were hollowing yourself out. But I still didn't know how much of it was his truth or just another part of the act.
"I don't know if I've ever been in love," Kiel continued, his voice softer now. "It was always about fixing things, keeping someone happy. I never took the time to think about what I wanted. When I realized what was happening, it was already too late."
I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. His words were too close to my own fears, too familiar. I didn't know if I was ready to trust him with the same vulnerability.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my voice light but distant. "It's tough when you're always giving, but no one's really giving back."
There was a long pause, both of us lost in the understanding of it. Neither of us had gotten what we needed from the relationships we'd been in.
"I don't want that again," Kiel said, almost to himself. "I want something real, something where both people are all in. I think… I think I might be ready for that."
I wasn't sure if his words were meant for me or just a quiet reflection of his own realization. But I didn't respond right away. I wasn't ready to commit to anything that felt too much, too soon.
We finished breakfast in silence, the weight of our conversation still lingering. But there was a kind of peace in it—an understanding that didn't need to be said.
Eventually, Kiel glanced at the clock, breaking the stillness. "You want me to give you a ride home?" he asked, his voice casual, but the warmth in his tone felt like an invitation.
I hesitated, unsure. There was a part of me that wanted to keep my distance, that wanted to protect the small bit of peace we'd found. But another part of me, the one that wasn't quite ready to let go, nodded. "Sure. That would be nice."
His smile was small, but it lingered in the air as we gathered our things and headed out. The world outside was waiting, but for now, it didn't feel as suffocating.
We drove in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable—just quiet. I wasn't sure where I stood with Kiel or what came next. But for the first time in a while, I wasn't as consumed by the noise around me. Maybe it was the clarity of the conversation, or maybe it was just the quiet company.
"You know," Kiel said, breaking the silence as we neared my building, "I'm glad we talked today."
I gave him a small smile, my voice steady. "Yeah. Me too."
He pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than usual. "Take care, Keiyi."
I nodded, stepping out of the car and into the chilly air, feeling the weight of the morning settle on me like a soft blanket.
I didn't know what the future held, but I knew this much—there were still things to uncover, still spaces in between that needed time and patience to figure out. I wasn't sure how things would unfold, but for the first time, I wasn't afraid to let it happen.