The strobe lights spun across the ceiling, firing white and purple beams that pulsed with the throb of the bass. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, sharp perfume, and spilled alcohol on the sticky floor beneath my shoes. People danced, their bodies moving in unison like an endless wave. But all of it blurred. All of it was only background.

Because my eyes found only you.

A glimpse of your face in the crowd—the neon glow falling right along your jawline, your eyes seeming to meet mine by accident. That single second was enough to make my heart slam against my ribs, to make my lungs forget how to work.

For months I built walls. Filling the empty spaces you left with music, with work, with false laughter. I thought I had succeeded. But in truth I was only deceiving myself. Because now, as if no time had passed at all—all the wounds, all the attempts to forget—collapsed the moment I saw you again.

My hands clenched at my sides. I could feel my fingers tremble slightly, as if my body itself was unsure whether to hold back or surrender. But my steps couldn’t lie. My feet moved, pushing through the crowd. Shoulders bumped against me, someone nearly spilled their drink onto my shirt, but I didn’t care. There was an invisible magnet pulling me. You were my center of gravity, and I was only a cursed satellite bound to always return.

I pushed closer, cutting through the line of people moving without rhythm. Cold sweat trickled at my temple, not from the heat of the room but from the shadow of a question—what would happen when I finally stood before you again?

Nearness sharpened every detail. The way your hair fell across the side of your face, the flickering neon light brushing against your skin, the faint shadow in your eyes. And I felt something both painful and intoxicating: my longing, wrapped in estrangement.

You had once been home to me. The one I came to after long nights. The one whose laughter and silence alike could soothe me. And now, all of that felt distant, distorted like an echo down an empty hallway. Our bond remained only as shards of memory I held too tightly, like broken glass in my fist.

I stopped for a moment, a few steps away from you. My breath was heavy, my chest tight, as if I had just run a marathon. I wanted to speak, to say something—anything. But my tongue was tied. How could I possibly compress months of loss into a single sentence?

So I only stood there, letting my eyes speak louder than the music that thundered around us. Letting my trembling body bear witness to the truth that I had never truly been able to let you go.

And in that instant I knew—no matter how hard I tried to move forward, I would always be pulled back to you.

So I drew in a breath, deep, letting the last of my courage push me onward. My hand lifted, trembling but certain, until my fingertips brushed your arm. The touch was simple—just a light graze across your skin—but to me it felt like electricity sparking from my fingers through my entire body. And before I could lose my nerve again, my lips moved, my voice almost drowned by the pounding music, but just clear enough for you to hear.

“…Hi.”

One word. Fragile, simple, yet heavy with everything I had never been able to say.