It's been just a few hours since Camila called to cancel our "make-up date." Was I hurt? Absolutely. Was I thrilled at the thought of finally meeting her? No doubt. Could I have played it cool and declined when she suggested it this morning, given it was a business scene? Probably. But the truth is, I said yes without hesitation. There's something about her—some kind of spell I can't explain.
Still, when she cancelled, I didn't show how crushed I was. I played it off like she ran the show, like her word was law. Deep down, though, I had other plans. I'd been invited to a weekend getaway by a client this afternoon, and I already imagined strolling in, Camila on my arm, turning heads like a scene out of a movie.
I'd pictured it so vividly that when she backed out, I was left speechless—like fate had packed up and quit on me.
"Oh Harry," I muttered to myself, "you're starting to sound way too heartbroken."
In just an hour, the event would begin. I could've politely backed out—made up some excuse. I could've bowed out gracefully—blamed the traffic, a headache, even Mercury in retrograde. But no. Here I am, wondering how my client would feel if I bailed last minute.
Always the gentleman, even with a bruised ego. So, I guess I'm going.
Time to figure out what to wear. I pulled on a pair of sleek black pants and a matching shirt. Nothing flashy. This isn't a night to turn heads—it's survival, not seduction. I plan to sit quietly, sip a drink or two, and watch as lovebirds flutter around the room, whispering sweet nothings and flaunting their affection like it's currency.
Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe it's a chance to study the modern language of love—the words, the gestures, the latest upgrades in PDA. After all, Camila only canceled a date, not my entire existence in her life. She's not gone for good. At least, I hope not.
Tonight's not a party—it's a crash course. A lecture in romance 101. And let's be honest, I haven't been in class for a while. Time to catch up.
I slid into my comfiest shoes—because why suffer for fashion when no one's watching? Spritzed my go-to cologne, fluffed whatever needed fluffing, straightened what needed straightening.
Let's go learn the language of love—while silently judging the grammar.
...
The streetlights tonight? Pure mockery. Glowing soft and golden, like they've been handpicked for lovers strolling arm-in-arm—designed for fairy tales, not lone wolves. And here I am, freshly single... again.
"Oh come on, Harry," I mutter to myself, "isn't this a bit dramatic? What have the streetlights ever done to you? Camila only canceled the date. She didn't say no to the proposal... which, by the way, you haven't even made yet."
My mind tonight feels hijacked—these aren't my thoughts. I haven't spiraled like this in ages.
Snap out of it, man. Pull yourself together and just get to the venue. Preferably in one emotional piece.
The music was soft—almost shy—but dripping with romance, like it knew love was in the air and didn't want to interrupt. The room was a swirl of colognes, hand-holding, and affection thick enough to choke a single man. I gave a polite nod to no one in particular and slipped into a seat at the back—perfect for observation, the only role I seem to play these days.
Then, like a cruel little joke, my thoughts came crashing in. "This could be you, Harry... but here you are—alone, again." I slapped my thigh without realizing, trying to jolt myself back into the moment. Just my luck—the waiter picked that exact second to drop a drink in front of me. Smooth, Harry.
I took a sip and watched the couples parade by like romantic specimens: the "we-never-let-go-of-each-other's-hands" type, the bold "I-don't-care-who's-watching-they're-mine" duo, and my personal favorite—the "smile-now-or-we'll-fight-later" kind. Don't judge me. I'm just here with my drink, a single guy taking mental notes... and maybe silently screaming.
Still, somewhere deep down, a tiny flicker of hope stayed lit. Maybe Camila would text. Maybe she'd show up, apologize with that enchanting voice, and say something like, "I couldn't stay away after all." I know, I know—daydream deluxe.
But until then, I'll sip, observe, learn... maybe even steal a line or two for the next time I'm lucky enough to try again. After all, who said romance was dead? It's just fashionably late.
"Hi, Harry. I found you," came a voice, soft and familiar, from just behind me.
I turned with a smile already forming—it was Jason, my ever-enthusiastic client.
"I was beginning to think you'd ghosted the night," he grinned. "Where's your mystery date?"
"Jason," I greeted, as coolly as I could manage. "You know I wouldn't miss this for the world. Especially not after your dramatic invitation." I chuckled, then added with a straight face, "As for my date... she's caught up with something urgent. Work stuff. Very top-secret, very... important."
A lie, yes. A smooth one? Hopefully.
"So for now, it's just me, soaking up the music, the view, and the sweet hum of other people being in love."
"Thank you for honoring the invite," he said sincerely—just as his fiancée floated into the conversation, glowing and graceful. We exchanged pleasantries and warm smiles.
Then Jason, ever the instigator, clapped his hands like he'd just discovered a plot twist. "So, Harry has no date! What on earth do we do about that?"
I raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. "Well, Jason, unless you're offering to lend me yours for the night, I think I'll survive."
We all laughed—some more nervously than others—and for a second, the night didn't feel so empty after all.
Just then, a rather loud voice pierced the air from behind—"Hi, everyone!"
I turned, curious... and mildly stunned. Wait a second—wasn't that the couple I'd given a ride to Tulip Apartments earlier? Of course. How could I forget? This wasn't just some random soirée—it was a couple's retreat. And I, brilliant as ever, was the lone wolf in a sea of lovebirds. Why was I even surprised to see another pair roll in? Honestly, there were probably dozens of couples here who knew Jason and his fiancée.
But then—plot twist.
Walking in right behind them, like a well-timed scene from a romantic drama, was Camila. My heart may have skipped a beat... or twelve. There she was, in all her breathtaking glory, moving with that effortless grace and wearing a mini dress that looked less like clothing and more like it had been painted onto her by angels.
OMG.
Was this her excuse for canceling on me earlier? A secret RSVP to this retreat? Was she someone else's plus-one? Did fate just redeem itself or play a cruel prank?
I stood frozen, torn between awe and anxiety. She was walking toward us—and I was entirely unprepared. My mind raced as fast as my pulse. And let me just say, the structured office outfit she wore this morning? They were hiding a masterpiece.
"Hi Pam, I see you dragged Camila out finally", Jason said. Pam exchanged greetings with the duo, then took a sip of the wine in her glass.
With plans to sound casual with my conversations right here this moment with Camila in sight, all my internal monologue was screaming WHAT IS HAPPENING.
Camila was mid-greeting with Jason and his fiancée when she looked up and locked eyes with me—her expression a mix of shock, guilt, and wait-what-universe-is-this. But to her credit, she recovered like a pro.
With the kind of smooth confidence that only comes from either divine intervention or very good improv, she smiled and said, "Everyone, meet Harry. He's... a friend of mine."
A friend of mine? Okay, sure. Not the grand entrance I envisioned for us, but I'll take what I can get.
Pamela, the ever-curious friend with the sharpest radar for romance, narrowed her eyes and said with mock suspicion, "Camila has a male friend I don't know about?"
Before Camila could fumble a reply, Pamela spun to me like she was cross-examining a witness. "Wait—I know you! You're the guy who drove us to Tulip Apartments, right?"
I gave a proud little nod, trying to stand taller. "That's me," I said, as if being the unofficial Uber of the group earned me points. I thought that would be the end of it.
But no. Pamela, clearly the resident plot-twister, grinned like she'd just solved a mystery. "Well, since my surprise blind date for Camila mysteriously didn't show up,"—her eyes darted to Camila with a knowing smirk—"I think she's found herself a new one."
Then, with the grace of a judge banging her gavel, she declared, "Neither of you should be lonely tonight. That could be dangerous."
Cue the chorus of laughter from the group—teasing, delighted, and just loud enough to make it impossible to protest. They gave exaggerated little bows and drifted away, leaving Camila and me standing there like two characters shoved into a rom-com scene we didn't rehearse for.
We exchanged a look—hers a blend of amused embarrassment, mine pure what in the plot twist is this?
And just like that, we'd been declared a couple for the night.
Tonight just got a lot more interesting. Or complicated. Possibly both.
It might be fate. It might be chaos. Or, as I'm beginning to suspect—it's both, wearing matching outfits and sipping champagne in the corner.