The disco ball spills its chromatic spell across the bar, tinting the shadows in glimmers of unreality. I lean against the bar counter, sipping the strongest pour in silence. My gaze adrift, lost in my thoughts. Each sip is a quiet plea—for comfort, for silence, for anything to quell the ache that won’t stop rising.

"I wish I had my own stud..."

Yong and wild, Zofia. It's a jab.