Not because I want to dance. But because I simply do not care.
I leave my colleagues at the bar and slip into the chaos of the dance floor. Latin rhythms pulse beneath my skin as the top floor of the club throbs with movement, sweat, and heat.
A few minutes later, my back hits the wall behind a dark, curtain-draped corner of the club—my dress hiked up, my thoughts long gone.
His hand slides up my thigh—hot and claiming. His mouth crushes mine, rough and hungry. His hands are greedy, fast.
And I?
All I feel is the cold glass in my hand.
Sometimes, the only way to silence a memory is to let someone else’s hands overwrite it. Not with tenderness or love. Just pressure and noise.
Just enough to drownhimout.
From where I stand, I can still see the crowd pulsing on the dance floor—light, sound, life. But here, in this shadowed corner, the darkness foldsaround me like a second skin. It hides me in plain sight. Out there, the world moves. In here, I disappear.
His hand grabs my thigh, lifts it high against his hip, and forces himself inside me.
My back arches against the wall—not from pleasure, but from impact. His grip tightens at my waist while his mouth brushes my neck.
Still—nothing.
My fingers dig into the velvet-covered wall, my eyes drifting past him—unfocused, unseeing. Over his shoulder, I watch the flashing lights. The distant blur of bodies.
I’m not here. Not really.
I’m floating above myself—watching from a place where nothing can reach me.
My body moves automatically. It’s all just mechanics.
No connection, no pleasure. Just anaesthesia.
The music swallows everything: the grunts, the friction.
Good. Let it end. Soon.
But then, I feel it. A single shift in the air and a strong sense of presence.
The curtain splits apart and the darkest eyes I’ve ever known pierce through the dimness, locking onto mine. Unforgiving.
Dorian.
He is here.
For a second, the world stops and there is nothing else. I freeze under his burning gaze and my chest tightens painfully.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He just watches, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into the fall.
His jaw is locked and his shoulders are rigid. Fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by force.
The stranger keeps moving inside me, unaware. And suddenly—I want it to end. I want him out. But I don’t move. I can’t.
I lift my chin. I hold Dorian’s stare — not from defiance, but because if I look away, the collapse might start.
Let him see… what he left behind, what’s become of me because of him.
Not in words or pleas.
