you had broken up with your boyfriend a few months back. he had moved on — fast, clean, easy. you hadn’t. not because you couldn’t, but because you clung to the idea that it hadn’t been real. he still loved you, right? that’s what you told yourself on sleepless nights, even though you knew better. it was the only thing that fed your delusions. because the alternative — that you were simply unlovable — was unbearable.

you had just come back from another therapy session, the kind where you nodded and said “i’ll try” but left feeling hollow. the words never stayed, they never healed. nothing ever did. so you walked into sin-é, the familiar dim light folding around you like smoke. you only wanted a drink, something numbing and bitter.

jeff was on stage. of course he was. you didn’t care, not really. you didn’t come here for music. you sat at the bar with your back to him, head bowed, letting the weight of your thoughts press your body down. your face still carried the evidence of earlier tears; eyes swollen, cheeks raw. a small cast of light fell across the room, hazy and soft, like some cruel spotlight illuminating your sadness.

and jeff noticed. from the stage, between lines, he glanced at you. not long enough for anyone else to see, but enough for him to wonder. how could someone look so sad and so breakable, in a room that was supposed to hold music, not grief?

after his set, he found you. he leaned against the bar, close but not too close, and ordered a drink. his presence was steady, almost ordinary, like he wasn’t just the man who had filled the room minutes before.

“rough night?” he asked finally, voice low. you barely moved. “yeah.”

he studied you. “you don’t like the music?” he asked softly, he wouldn't admit that if you said no, he would've been a bit hurt. “it’s fine.” you murmured.

a pause. “just fine?” he pushed gently. “what do you want me to say?” you blurted out. “maybe nothing,” he said, almost smiling. “maybe just… don’t look so far away.”

your lips pressed together, unsure if you should apologize or laugh. the words landed awkwardly between you, suspended, not quite connecting.

the bar hummed with quiet chatter, but it felt like the two of you were trapped under some strange dome of light, illumoria — the state where you’re half-real, half-dream, existing and not existing all at once. you thought maybe that’s why he looked at you the way he did, like he recognized the fracture in you, like he knew how it felt to stand on the edge of your own life, blurry, untethered.

you didn’t know if you wanted him to say more or leave you alone. both options hurt in different ways. so you sat there, your drink untouched, while he stayed beside you, neither of you daring to fill the silence that felt heavier than any song.