šStarlet
The night was old, but her plight quite young. She sat right under the exit sign, drinking a fifth, holding it like a song.
He reached out to her, his voice holding no ill.
āYou know, you could stay the night at my place.ā
She winked. āMy place is better... unless you beg me to.ā
They darted through her door, not sure who wanted who.
She stood before him, her thin straps undone.
When his eyes got stuck to her breast, she played it off and touched her neck.
They woke up half alone to go again.
Not knowing if they would find someone new to love.
Or at least, someone close enough.
āļø Authorās Note
I wrote this in 2019, during a strange in-between. Not quite lonely. Not quite okay. Just existing in the gaps between things.
ā94ā by Henri Bardot was on repeat for weeks. The song feels like standing at the edge of something you canāt nameāa memory you havenāt lived yet, a longing for a moment thatās already passed. Itās not sadness exactly, but it isnāt joy either. It lives in that quiet middle ground where youāre aware of distance even when someoneās sitting right next to you. The gap between wanting and having. Between knowing someoneās name and knowing their heart.
Many of my stories from that time were ways of trying to feel something through other peopleās lives. My characters got to be reckless in ways I wasnāt. They got to want things loudly. To make mistakes. To wake up in someone elseās sheets without the weight of wondering if it meant something.
Strangers to the night, friends at times with dreams bigger than themselves. That was me too, I guess. Life was never what it seemed. Thoughts darted, aspirations slipped away, and sometimes the only thing I could count on was the solace in a fifth drink or the warmth of skin when words failed.
These two people are searching for something. Maybe love. Maybe just warmth. Maybe both running from loneliness in the only way they know how. Thereās a tenderness in thatāthe act of choosing connection even when you know it wonāt last, even when you wake up half alone.
The fifth in this story isnāt just a bottle. Itās the ritual that makes vulnerability possible. The small, flawed courage it takes to reach out when reaching out feels too dangerous without it.
This story is, in a way, a confession I couldnāt say out loud. So I let them say it for me.
š A Question for You
Have you ever found yourself in a moment like this ā where connection felt both urgent and fleeting? Where you werenāt sure if you were searching for love or just someone to make the loneliness feel less heavy?
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