The clubshe chooses is boujie as fuck.The bass line from the sound system vibrates through the floor, up through your feet and into your chest, while strobes of neon pink and electric blue slice through the darkness.
Bodies move like liquid in the spaces between light, and the air is thick with sweat, expensive perfume, and the sweet haze of whatever people are smoking in the darker corners.It's dark, crowded, music so loud you can feel it in your chest.
But sober, it's different.
Everything is too bright, too close, too much.When you're drunk or high, the press of bodies feels intimate, warm.
Stone cold sober, it feels claustrophobic.
I nurse a Coke at the bar, the glass slick with condensation in my palm, and watch Luiza work the room.She's magnetic in a way that seems effortless but probably isn't.
People gravitate toward her, want to be near her energy, and I remember what that was like.When I was using, I had some of that too—the dangerous charm, the unpredictability that drew people in.
Now I feel like I'm watching life through bulletproof glass.
"Dance with me," Luiza says, appearing at my elbow and grabbing my hand before I can protest, her fingers still buzzing with performance adrenaline.
The dance floor is a sweaty pool of bodies moving to electronic music that has no soul, all pounding beats and synthetic melodies.But Luiza moves like the music is made for her, and despite myself, I get caught up in it.
She presses close, her hands on my shoulders, and for a moment I let myself pretend this is normal.That I'm a normal twenty-one-year-old guy in a club dancing.
"I need to ask you something," she says, her mouth close to my ear so I can hear her over the music, her breath warm against my neck.
"What?"
"Will you help me write my next album?"
I pull back to look at her, studying her face in the shifting colored light."Luiza?—"
"Hear me out."She grabs both my hands, squeezing them.
"The label wants me to start working on new material as soon as this tour wraps.And after tonight, after hearing people go crazy for the songs you wrote, I want to write with you.Really write, not just perform your stuff.What do you think?"
Another album means another tour.
And at the rate Luiza's gaining stardom, it wouldn't surprise me if she started booking global tours summer after summer.Which means leaving Spain, leaving the life I've built here and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that just yet.
But it also means music.
Real music, the kind that matters.
Truth is, I haven't thought about what would happen after this tour finished.I like my life in Malaga—it’s easy, peaceful.
Working during the day on the vineyard with Javier, writing music in my spare time and playing these gigs with Luiza gave me peace of mind.
But could that be it for life?
"Yeah," I hear myself saying."Let me think about it."
Her face explodes into joy, and she throws her arms around me, kissing my cheek over and over like an excited kid.And I let her, because she’s done and given me so much these past few months.
"You won't regret this," she says, still in my arms, bouncing slightly on her toes."We're going to make something beautiful."
With her pressed against me, her perfume mixing with the sweat and smoke of the club, I look across the dance floor at the crowd of people living their lives, making their mistakes, falling in love and breaking hearts.
Then my heart stops beating.
Or at least it feels like it does.
