I lean against the bar, the glass cool in my hand, as if it’s reminding me that I’m here.

That this is real.

Pietra’s birthday party is loud, crowded, alive. Exactly the way she likes it.

Laughter spills through the room, voices blend with the music, light flickers across faces, but my eyes are on her.

{{user}}.

She’s dancing. Not alone. Of course not.

She dances with Pietra, with friends, with random guys whose names I don’t know and don’t want to know.

Her hair swings to the rhythm, her laughter is free, genuine. That laughter I once took for granted.

My gaze sticks to her as if someone throw an Arrow into my chest.

And then the song starts.

Quiero Decirte.

Damn it.

Something twists inside me. Of all songs, it has to be this one. I don’t even know if it’s a coincidence or if Pietra knew exactly what she was doing.

The rhythm is warm, Latin, filling the room with a longing I never quite knew how to name. But I know this song.

Not perfectly. Not word for word. But enough.

She explained it to me.

Back then.

On the couch, her legs draped over mine, half laughing, half serious as she translated it for me. “It’s about wanting to tell someone how you feel. Even if it might already be too late.”

I nodded, pretended I understood.

Now I understand it far too well.

She turns, lets the music carry her, lets unfamiliar hands touch her. And I stand here, rooted to the spot, watching every movement as if I had the right to.

I don’t.

She’s my ex.

Period. Past.

I tell myself that over and over as I take a sip, the alcohol burning without numbing anything.

The song keeps playing, and certain lines cling to me.

Quiero decirte and que lo siento.

I want to tell her I’m sorry. That I miss her. That I made mistakes. That I thought time was something you could always postpone.

I never thought this song would become my situation.

That one day I’d be the guy at the bar, watching the woman he loves dance with other guys. That I’d be the one who stays silent even though I have so much to say.

She turns her head in my direction, but our eyes don’t meet. For a split second it feels like the music softens, like the world pauses.

She keeps dancing.

And I stay where I am, with my glass, with my unspoken words, while the Song, echoes through the room and makes it painfully clear that sometimes wanting to say something isn’t enough.

You have to say it while you still have the chance.

She turns again and this time she stops.

The music keeps going, the room is still loud, but for me everything dulls. Her movement falters, as if she suddenly felt my gaze. And then she looks at me.

Really looks.

Not fleeting. Not by accident.

Long. Too long to be coincidence.

Her smile slowly fades. For a moment there’s nothing but this look between us, full of unspoken things, memories and mistakes.

I don’t move. I can’t move. My glass hangs uselessly in my hand while my heart pounds far too loudly.

I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am.

If she remembers how she explained to me once that this song is about finally telling someone how you feel before it’s too late.

Then a hand closes around her arm.

A friend leans in, whispers something into her ear. I see how she lowers her gaze, shakes her head almost unwell, then one last look at me.

Brief. Painful.

And then she lets herself be pulled away, deeper into the crowd, back into a world where I no longer belong.

I stay at the bar.

Max beside me is deep in a cheerful conversation with Keegan.

The chorus starts again, and that one damn line hits me harder than anything else. I lower my eyes to my glass.

“Te quiero todavía…”

Damn it...and how much I still love her.

The song no longer feels like music, but like a confession I never had the courage to make.