The room keeps moving—music thudding, bodies swaying, lights strobbing—but I don’t.I’m frozen inside myself, caught in the exact second where reality forgets to keep going.
Because what are the fucking chances of Lenora Wells being in Spain.
In Barcelona.
In this exact nightclub.
On this exact night.
There’s no way this is real.
For a split second, I’m convinced I’m dreaming.
Or hallucinating.
Or that someone slipped something into my drink strong enough to crack my brain wide open and let my ghosts walk free.
Then I see her breathe.
She’s standing near the bar, black dress clinging to her like it was made for this moment alone, like the universe dressed her carefully just to ruin me.The lights catch in her hair, slide over her shoulders, and for a second everything around her blurs, like the world knows she’s the only thing that matters.
She’s staring straight at me.
Those eyes—the same ones that have lived in every song I’ve written for the past eight months, the same ones I tried to drown out with noise and distance and bad decisions—are real.
Present.
Locked onto mine.
She looks older.Sharper somehow.Like she’s grown into herself.
And still—fuck—still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The floor drops out from under me.
My hands go slack.My balance goes with them.I have to grab the edge of the table beside me just to stay upright, like gravity remembered me all at once and decided to be cruel.
This isn’t a dream.
She’s not a memory or a lyric or a phantom I dragged across an ocean.
She’s here.
Lenora Wells.
In Barcelona.
Looking at me like time stopped too—and she felt it.
Looking at me like she's seeing a ghost.
And maybe she is.
Maybe that's all I am now—a ghost of the guy who loved her, the same guy that fucked up everything because he couldn't figure out how to live with the pain of being alive.
Luiza is still talking, still celebrating, but her voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.
All I can see is Nora.
