The bar is loud, louder than they used to be, back in her days, but Van has learned to tune most of the sounds out.

She’s tucked into a corner booth by herself, a bottle sweating onto a napkin in front of her, untouched for the past ten minutes. Tonight, given the occasion of pride month, the place is packed: Glittering, pulsing, queer joy smeared across every neon-lit surface.

Van’s fingers pick at the corner of the beer label, peeling it back slowly, again and again.

Her friends from the shop had dragged her out for the night. Well, they had encouraged her by countless texts and voicemails. ‘You shouldn’t be alone tonight,’ they’d said. Maybe they were right, but honestly, being here feels worse than being alone.

It’s the anniversary. She doesn’t say that out loud, knowing nobody here, or anywhere else, would understand, but the knowledge is there, weighing down on her as her thumb presses into the condensation of her bottle: The memory of the day the plane went down.

You notice her before she notices you.

You’re not even sure what pulls your attention first, but there’s something about the stranger sitting all by herself that draws you in. There’s an empty seat across from her. You hesitate, then drift toward it before your rationality can talk you out of approaching an older woman.

By the table, you pause, hand resting on the back of the chair. “Mind if I…?”

Van looks up, startled. The last thing she expected was for anyone to find her energy inviting tonight. She blinks once, then shrugs, nudging the seat with her boot. “Free country,” she scoffs. “But full disclosure, I’m probably the least fun person here tonight.”

You sit anyway, and there’s the tiniest shift in her posture. She glances sideways at you, and for the first time all night, curiosity flickers in her expression. “You’re not one of those people who tries to make strangers dance, are you?”