I exhale the smoke from my cigarette, watching it curl and twist into the night air. It's strange, how something so fleeting can feel like a release. I tell myself that with every puff, I'm letting my worries drift away, carried off by the wind. But deep down, I know it's a lie.
My name is Lal- Lianne Althea, if you want the formal version but nobody calls me that anymore. My ex did... when she's mad, she calls me with my full name haha Lal is simpler, easier to wear, like an old, comfortable jacket. It fits me better now, especially after everything fell apart.
My fiancé ghosted me. Just disappeared, like smoke in the wind. One day, we were planning our future; the next, she was gone, her texts unread, her calls unanswered. At first, I thought there had to be an explanation. An emergency. A misunderstanding. Something. Anything. But as the days turned into weeks, the truth settled in: she chosen silence over me.
Now, here I am, standing under this flickering streetlight with a cigarette in my hand and no idea how to move forward. The irony doesn't escape me. I spent so much time dreaming about a life together, and now all I've got is this cold, empty night and the sound of my own breathing.
"Bullshit!" I whispered. "Love, huh?" I snorted.
Ghosting me after asking my hand for marriage is the greatest slap I received. So, this is it huh? I was being ghosted like this? The great Lianne Althea was being ghosted and left hanging.
"Hey, you!"
I turned to see a woman stumbling toward me, her short skirt and barely-there top catching the glow of the streetlights. She was clearly drunk, swaying with every step, her gaze locked on me.
"Kiss me," she demanded, her voice slurred but insistent.
What the hell? Not tonight. I'm already heartbroken. I don't have the time or patience to deal with random strangers looking for trouble.
I took a step back, ready to leave before she got any closer, but it was too late. Her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly firm.
"I said, kiss me," she repeated, her tone more forceful now.
"You're drunk," I said, keeping my voice calm, though my mind was racing.
"So? You can't do it?" she challenged, raising an eyebrow. "It's easy. Just lean in and let your lips touch mine." She spoke like she was giving a lesson, her words slow and deliberate, as if I didn't know how a kiss worked.
I sighed, glancing around the empty street. What now?
"Look," I said, trying to keep my tone steady. "You're not thinking straight. Go home, sleep this off."
She tilted her head, her expression shifting to something between a pout and defiance. "Home? Do you think I want to go back to an empty apartment? To... to nothing?" Her voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, her bravado faltered.
I hesitated. There was something raw in her words, something that mirrored my own feelings. But I shook it off. This wasn't my problem. I wasn't in the mood to play savior.
"You don't want to do this," I said firmly, prying her fingers off my wrist. "Trust me, you'll regret it in the morning."
She stumbled back a step but didn't let go easily, her hand lingering as if I was some lifeline she didn't want to lose. "You think I care about regrets? Newsflash, I'm full of them." She laughed bitterly, but it was hollow, empty.
For a moment, I just stood there, unsure of what to say. The heartbreak in her voice tugged at something deep inside me, but I wasn't sure if it was empathy or just exhaustion.
"Go home," I repeated softly, stepping back. "Take care of yourself. You deserve better than this."
Her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her. She blinked at me, the drunken haze in her eyes now mixed with something else—sadness, maybe, or realization.
"Better, huh?" she muttered, swaying slightly. "Yeah… maybe."
I thought she'd finally decided to give up and leave, but before I could take a breath of relief, she leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't passionate or deep, just two lips clashing awkwardly, almost desperate.
"I wanted to know," she slurred, pulling back slightly, her face still too close for comfort. "What's the difference between kissing a woman and a man? I sleep with men all the time. different ones, every night. But now, my parents think they can fix me by arranging a marriage with a woman. A finger instead of a dick! Crazy, isn't it?"
She laughed, but it wasn't joyful. It was bitter, broken. Her words hung in the air, heavy and raw.
I looked at her closely for the first time, scanning her face. She was beautiful, undeniably so, with high cheekbones and striking eyes that hinted at mixed heritage. A half-blood, probably part foreigner. But her beauty couldn't mask the turmoil underneath. the pain she carried so openly, like armor.
"You think this is the answer?" I asked, my voice low. "Kissing a stranger in the middle of the night to prove… what, exactly?"
She blinked, her expression faltering for a moment. "Maybe it's not the answer," she admitted, her voice softer now. "But I don't know what else to do. Everyone's trying to fix me, but no one's listening."
Her vulnerability was disarming, and for a second, I felt the urge to comfort her. But I pushed it down. I wasn't equipped to deal with this, not now.
"You don't need fixing," I said finally. "But you also don't need to hurt yourself trying to figure that out."
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, she looked away, her shoulders sagging. For the first time that night, she seemed smaller, less defiant.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
She hesitated, then answered, "Celine."
"Well, Celine," I said, taking a small step back, "go home. Sleep this off. And maybe tomorrow, start asking yourself what you want, not what they want."
She stared at me for a moment, her expression unreadable, before nodding slowly. "Maybe," she murmured again, the word almost inaudible. Then she looked back at me, her eyes holding mine for just a second longer. "Can I sleep at your place?" she asked suddenly.
I froze. The question caught me off guard. My first instinct was to say no, but the way she said it—soft, almost pleading—made me pause.
"Why?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Why would you want to sleep at my place? You don't even know me."
She shrugged, her composure crumbling again. "I don't know. I just… don't want to be alone tonight." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, as if embarrassed to admit it.
I hesitated, weighing my options. This woman was a complete stranger, drunk and vulnerable. Letting her crash at my place could easily go sideways, but leaving her to wander the streets in this state didn't sit right with me either.
"You're asking a lot," I said cautiously. "What if I'm not as nice as you think I am?"
She looked back at me, her gaze steady despite the alcohol clouding her mind. "You could've taken advantage of me already if you weren't," she said simply.
Her words hit me harder than I expected. She wasn't wrong.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Fine," I said reluctantly. "But just to sleep. No funny business. And you're out in the morning."
A flicker of relief crossed her face as she nodded. "Just to sleep," she echoed, swaying slightly.
"Come on," I said, gesturing for her to follow me. "Let's get you off the street."
As we walked in silence, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of life had led her to this moment, where asking a stranger for a place to sleep felt safer than going home.
I brought her to my condo, the small place I've called home ever since I moved closer to work. It wasn't fancy, but it was neat—organized in a way that made sense to me, with everything in its place.
She stepped inside, swaying slightly as she looked around. "How can you say you're a bad guy when you live in a place like this?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of wonder, like she hadn't expected someone like me to have their life together.
I raised an eyebrow. "You can't judge a person by where they live," I replied, closing the door behind us.
"Oh, but you can," she countered, turning to face me with a sly smile. "It means you're earning above minimum wage. And if you've got a job that pays that much, it probably means you're not a bad person. Bad people don't have their shit together like this."
I shook my head, suppressing a chuckle. "You've got an interesting logic there," I said, moving to set my keys on the counter. "But trust me, life isn't that simple."
She plopped down on the couch, her body sinking into the cushions. "Maybe not," she admitted, "but it's a good start. At least I know you're not some sketchy creep."
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms as I watched her. She seemed more relaxed now, the tension in her shoulders easing as she looked around the room. Despite her drunken state and her bold demeanor earlier, there was something oddly disarming about her something that made me want to understand the storm behind her eyes.
"You can crash here for the night," I said finally, breaking the silence. "But the couch is yours. The bedroom's off-limits."
She smirked, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough. Couch it is."
I handed her a spare blanket and pillow from the closet. "Get some rest," I said. "You'll feel better in the morning."
She nodded, wrapping herself in the blanket as she curled up on the couch. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice softer now.
I stayed in my veranda, still smoking. I was disturbed earlier.
"Still not asleep?" I heard a familiar voice. I thought she already have fallen asleep. Why is she awake?
"Hmm" I nodded without turning my head to face her.
"I can help you" she said. I can feel that she's smirking. I then finally look at her.
"How?" I asks.
Suddenly, I felt a lips crash on mine. again. I just let her. since I know, she won't deepen it. but to my surprised, she deepened the kiss. She's exploring my body, as if she's trying to familiarized it.
I pushed her.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I told you, I want to know how women have sex with each other. Teach me," she said, her voice firm but her eyes betraying her desperation.
I frowned, my patience wearing thin. "You've asked the wrong woman, miss," I said sharply.
She didn't back down. Instead, her voice rose, trembling with emotion. "I don't care if you're into girls or not. Just help me!"
My frustration bubbled over. "Why are you so desperate?" I snapped.
Her face twisted, a mix of anger and pain spilling out as she yelled, "Because I need to convince myself that what my parents are doing is really for my own sake! Not for their goddamn business! They want me to marry a woman, knowing I'm into men—just to save their precious company! They're willing to sacrifice me for that goddamn thing!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, and I could feel the weight of her stress, her bitterness, filling the room. She wasn't just drunk; she was broken, caught in a tug-of-war between duty and identity.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Look," I said, my tone softening slightly, "I get that you're angry, but this isn't the way to deal with it. You can't force yourself to prove something just to satisfy them. It won't change anything."
Her shoulders slumped, and for a moment, she just stared at the floor. "Then what am I supposed to do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I didn't have an answer for her. I wasn't sure anyone would.
"Just kiss me if you don't know what to say to me" she said.
I look at her. She's pretty, sexy, and charismatic. There's only the two of us, and I'm single. Why not grab the chance? Since I am also fucked up, let's do it.