I hate the noise.
The crowd.
The fake smiles and the smell of desperation soaked in vodka and regrets.
But tonight, i needed the chaos.
Because silence meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling—and i was too damn exhausted to feel anything real tonight.
I didn't even know how i got here.
One minute i was lying in bed, scrolling through meaningless reels, and the next i was dressed in something too tight, too sheer, too not-me.
But maybe that was the point.
The music throbbed like a heartbeat, loud and unforgiving.
I ordered my third drink without tasting the first two, barely flinching as the liquor burned my throat.
I was trying to blur out the weight in my chest, that stubborn ache i couldn't name.
Why do i feel like this?
It wasn't love.
I knew that much.
It couldn't be.
He was the kind of man you regret.
Not remember.
Right?
And yet, my body remembered him too well—his scent, his voice, the way he'd stare at me like i was the most infuriating thing in the world and still pull me in like gravity.
He made me feel like nothing and everything at the same time.
I leaned against the bar, eyelids heavy, vision swimming just enough to let the world soften around the edges.
Another shot.
Another shallow breath.
I didn't notice the room tilting, i didn't notice how my fingers had started to tremble.
And i definitely didn't notice them until i turned my head and—
Putangina.
My stomach twisted.
My blood boiled.
Every blurry part of me snapped into cruel clarity.
There he was.
Lorenzo.
Sitting two tables away.
Head thrown back, laughing at something someone said.
The girl beside him—Jasmine? Jade? Jazz? Who gives a fuck—was hanging onto his arm, her smile wide, her hand trailing along his chest like it belonged there.
My heart stopped.
Then restarted in the worst way.
I stared.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
Was this a joke?
Was the universe mocking me?
He looked… content.
Like he didn't wake up in my bed a few nights ago.
Like he hadn't pressed his forehead to mine and stolen pieces of me i wasn't even willing to give.
Like i didn't matter.
I must've looked pathetic.
Glass in one hand, the other shaking, legs swaying slightly in heels i already regretted wearing.
I don't know what i was thinking. Maybe i wasn't thinking at all.
Because the next thing i knew, my feet were moving, the ground uneven beneath me, the music warping in my ears.
My hands pushed past a few strangers, my heels catching against the floor.
And suddenly, I was standing right in front of them.
Lorenzo looked up.
His expression barely changed—just a twitch of his brow, the faintest tightening of his jaw.
"Wow," I said, half laughing. "What a cute little date night."
The girl blinked at me. "Excuse me?"
I tilted my head. "You're excused."
Lorenzo's voice cut through. Cold. Even. "Anastasia, you're drunk." That's the first time he called by my first name, and it felt…., really…., really hurt.
"No shit," I said with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "I thought i'd come here and drink away my bad taste in men and clearly, the universe wanted me to see it up close."
"Don't do this here," he said sharply, standing now. His height blocked some of the light, but not the tension radiating from him. "Go home."
"Go home?" I laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Daddy. I'm not the one playing house with someone new while pretending you don't remember how it felt to be inside me."
The girl gasped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I turned to her. "I could ask you the same thing. You like leftovers, sweetheart?"
Lorenzo stepped in, jaw clenched. "Enough. Jas has nothing to do with this."
"Jas," I repeated, mocking. "Of course. Cute name. Sounds like someone who buys rose gold water bottles and believes in crystals."
"Don't take your issues out on her," he snapped. "You're the one who walked away."
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He wasn't wrong.
But he wasn't right either.
"You know what?" I muttered, eyes burning. "I hope she breaks you."
And then i turned.
Stumbled, really.
I didn't expect him to follow.
But he did.
We ended up in his car.
Not a word spoken for the first minute.
The AC was cold.
His hands stayed on the wheel.
Mine were shaking in my lap.
"Why did you follow me?" I asked, voice brittle.
"Because you're drunk."
"And?"
"And i'm not an asshole," he muttered.
I laughed bitterly. "You're not? Then what the hell do you call the other nights? mini game?"
He didn't answer.
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.
I stared at the side of his face, waiting for something, anything. But he gave me nothing.
Always nothing.
"You looked happy with her," I whispered.
He sighed, still not looking at me. "You left. You said you didn't want this."
"No," I said, voice cracking. "I said I didn't know what this was."
His jaw twitched.
"And now?" he asked, finally meeting my gaze. "Do you know what it is?"
I swallowed.
My throat was dry.
My heart louder than my thoughts.
"No," I admitted. "But it hurts."
We didn't speak after that.
The drive was quiet, thick with words neither of us had the courage to say.
Then came the hotel.
His keycard beeped.
The door opened.
And all the noise inside me shattered the moment it closed.
-
The room was dim, lit only by the muted glow from a single bedside lamp. The walls were quiet, soft beige, too clean, too sterile for what was burning inside me.
I stepped in first, heels clicking against the marble floor.
My legs were weak, not from the alcohol, but from the weight of everything i wasn't saying.
He shut the door behind us with a quiet thud.
Silence.
I hated how familiar it felt.
How my body knew where the light switch was.
How my eyes instinctively found the spot on the couch where i once sat in his hoodie, legs tucked beneath me, pretending not to care when he was watching me.
But i cared.
God, I cared too much.
I turned around slowly. "So what now? You gonna pretend we're strangers again?"
Lorenzo didn't move.
He just shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the chair like he was tired of carrying it, like he was tired of carrying me, too.
"You need to sleep this off," he said simply.
"I'm not here to sleep," I fired back, stepping closer. "Don't pretend like this isn't what you want too."
His eyes met mine, sharp, unreadable, a storm behind calm glass. "You're drunk."
"And you're a coward."
That did something. His expression darkened, jaw clenching.
"Don't," he warned.
"What? Don't tell the truth?" I said, voice cracking. "That you hide behind this whole stone-cold act just to protect yourself from actually feeling something?"
He stepped forward then, slow and controlled, like he was reigning something in.
His face hovered inches from mine.
I could smell the faint scent of musk and mint—dangerous and familiar.
"You think you know me?" he murmured.
"I know enough," I whispered.
"Really?" His voice dropped. "Then tell me—what do you want, Anastasia? Because one second you're pushing me away, and the next, you're clawing to get back in."
"I don't know," I said, hating how honest i sounded. "I just know that it hurts like hell to see you with someone else."
He didn't say anything.
I felt tears sting my eyes, but i didn't let them fall. I wouldn't give him that.
"I never asked you to wait for me," I continued, voice barely above a whisper. "But you didn't have to make it look so easy."
His hand reached up slowly, hesitant and for a second, I thought he'd brush my cheek.
But instead, he stepped past me.
Toward the mini fridge.
He grabbed a bottle of water, uncapped it, and extended it to me.
Fucking water.
I took it without a word. Drank like it would somehow swallow down the lump in my throat.
He watched me. Still unreadable.
"You want to stay the night?" he asked quietly. No teasing. No flirtation.
Just that.
I looked at him, chest tightening. "Do you want me to?"
His silence was louder than anything.
Eventually, he stepped back.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Elbows on his knees.
Head bowed like he was exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. As if i drained him by simply existing.
"You can stay," he said. "As long as you want"
I stared at him.
Then slowly walked toward the bed.
I didn't touch him. I didn't beg.
I just curled into the other side, facing away, our backs inches apart but oceans wide.
No skin touched.
No words passed.
Just breath and grief.
And the echo of everything we never got the timing right for.