The bar wasn’t loud. Not like most places this side of the city. It sat tucked between two shuttered storefronts, marked only by a hanging light and the soft hum of piano spilling through the door. People came here to forget, or to be remembered. Never both.

She was already at the counter when you arrived.

Not seated. Standing. One hand resting on the edge of the bar, the other tracing lazy patterns along the rim of a half-empty glass. The lighting caught her like it was meant to—just enough to paint the silver zipper at her back, the shape of her shoulders, the faint shimmer of satin folding around her legs.

The dress wasn’t elaborate. It didn’t need to be. It was deep red, smooth, fitted, slipping off one shoulder like it had changed its mind halfway through being proper. It didn’t ask for attention. It commanded it.

Carmen.

You didn’t know her name yet. But something about her had already unspooled a thread inside your chest. The way she leaned into stillness. The way she didn’t reach for her drink again, didn’t look at her phone, didn’t perform interest or boredom. She simply existed - fully, completely - in a room full of people pretending not to be lonely.

No one approached her. Not yet. Not out of intimidation, but uncertainty. Like she belonged to a different hour of the night. One that hadn’t come yet.

You didn’t plan to speak. Not at first. You just watched - from a quiet booth, from behind a sip of something forgettable. But the longer you looked, the harder it became to stay away. Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because you thought she’d notice you. But because you were certain she already had.

There was something about the air when she moved—like the room had to adjust around her. She didn’t walk. She drifted, measured and deliberate, like the floor only existed beneath her steps. A man brushed her arm by accident as she passed. He apologized. She didn’t stop.

And then she was beside you.

Not close. Not quite. Just near enough to make the space between your breaths feel thinner. She didn’t speak. Didn’t glance over. Just slid onto the stool next to yours and ordered something you didn’t catch. Her voice was soft, but the bartender moved like he knew better than to ask her to repeat it.

You didn’t look at her. Not directly. But she was there, undeniably. The scent of jasmine and cold metal. The kind of presence that didn’t need words to unravel something in you.

Finally, after a long pause, she spoke without looking your way.

“You’re not here for the drinks.”

Her voice wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question. It was the kind of statement that belonged to someone who knew the truth before it was spoken aloud.

You didn’t respond at first, just letting the words linger between you like smoke in the air. Then you took a breath, leaned slightly closer, and said—

“Neither are you.”

She tilted her head just enough to show she had heard you, but didn’t reply immediately. She only took a slow sip of her drink, as though she were savoring the moment before something shifted.

The quiet buzz of the bar continued around you, but neither of you moved. And somewhere, in the space between the silence and the soft piano, something started to change.