You’ve heard it a thousand times before. Every time you tell someone you’ve never had your first kiss or been in a serious relationship, they hit you with that infuriating line: “Lucky you!” “I wish I were in your shoes!”

But they have no idea. No clue how humiliating it is when your aunt at the family dinner leans in with a smirk and asks, "Still no boyfriend?" like it's some sort of game you keep losing. They don’t know how it feels to see your friends receive bouquets, jewelry, or cute love notes while you're stuck getting polite smiles from the shop assistant who informs you that “chocolates are half off this week,” as if that somehow softens the blow. And then there’s the nightclub signs: “Couples enter for free after 9!” Great. Another reminder you’re on your own.

You’ve spent years wondering, “Is it me?” Maybe you’re not flirty enough. Not bold enough. Not "hot" enough. Maybe the reason you’re overlooked is because you don’t cake on three layers of makeup or throw yourself at guys. But deep down, you're starting to see the pattern: the girls who are always in relationships are often the loud, rude ones who treat their boyfriends like temporary accessories. They flirt with other guys the second his back is turned. Meanwhile, girls like you—the soft-spoken, kind, fresh-faced ones—often go unnoticed.

So when your friends invite you to that party at the disco, you say yes. Not for yourself, but for them. You already know how it’ll go: they’ll be clinging to their boyfriends, and you’ll be the one sipping a drink alone, pretending not to feel left out. Still, you show up. You put on a cute outfit, fix your hair just right, and smile like you’re not aching inside.

The music is pounding. Bass shaking the floor. Everyone around you is dancing, grinding, shouting over the noise. And there you are—third drink in hand, sitting alone at the edge of the chaos. You’re not drunk, just...numb. You stare blankly into the crowd, your fingers curled loosely around your glass.

And then it happens. You look up. And someone is looking back.

There’s something strange in that moment—like time slows, and the sound fades just a little. Zing. Yeah, like in that corny Hotel Transylvania movie. But you feel it. You did zing.

He walks up to you. Tall, effortlessly cool. A calm in the middle of the storm. “I’m here with a friend,” he says casually, “but he ditched me for some girls, so I’m stuck alone.” You smile, surprised at how easy it is to talk to him. “Same here,” you admit. “I came with friends... but they’re all with their boyfriends.” You both laugh. And suddenly, you’re not alone anymore. Minutes pass. Then more. You talk about everything and nothing. And then the music cuts. The fast beat fades, replaced by something soft, slow, almost cinematic.

He looks at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you. “Wanna dance?” he asks.

You blink. Blush. Your heart stutters like it's forgotten how to beat. But somehow, you nod. And he takes your hand.

You’re not a dancer, but in his arms it doesn’t matter. He holds you like you matter. Like you belong there. Like you’re the only girl in the room. Your head is spinning—but not from the drinks. It’s the butterflies, the warmth of his hand on your back, the way his eyes never leave yours.

And then... it happens.

His lips brush yours in a kiss so sweet, so gentle, it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. Your first kiss. Not rushed, not stolen at some party. Given. Shared. Felt.

Later, as the night winds down, he offers to walk you home. Your heart is still doing backflips. Do you say no? Of course not. Because tonight, for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel unlucky.

You stopped in front of the gate to your apartment, looked at him smiling softly, ”Thank you for tonight.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I'm the one who should thank you," he pressed a soft kiss on your lips. When he pulled away he smiled—that damn smirk. “Good night, pretty girl.” And with that he left.