Vanessa
Three things are absolutely certain right now: I've had way too many Dark 'n' Stormys—the name was seductive, and I lost count after the third—so yes, I'm definitely drunk. My new friends Wenn and Shawn promised a game of spin-the-bottle and mysteriously vanished into the bar over an hour ago, and I have no intention of looking for them—for the sake of my mental imagery. And I'm completely sure this game is going to be a disaster.
The lights flicker a little harder, and the circle forms around a low table, where the bottle waits—shiny and expectant, like a lighthouse in the middle of chaos. I sink deeper into the couch, my laughter blending with the clinking of glasses, while Maeson sits at the opposite end, arms crossed, and Vicky throws warning glances with surgical precision.
Konnor, way too close, tries to start conversations that get lost in the noise, while Zane, visibly uncomfortable, fiddles with his glass and stares at the bottle like it's the trigger for something inevitable. The atmosphere is thick with a mix of anxiety and excitement; everyone knows that tonight, under the cover of music and shadows, some secrets are about to spill.
When the bottle spins for the first time, the silence is electric. The background songs seem to sync with the tension, marking the rhythm of every turn, every fleeting glance. No one knows who'll be the first to break the barrier between what's said and what's felt—but everyone understands that once the game begins, nothing will be the same.
The bottle stops. Zane is chosen. Eyes land on him, and the tension breaks with a wave of muffled giggles. I take the lead, with the playful glint of someone who doesn't want to make anyone uncomfortable.
"Zane, if you could have dinner with anyone—alive or dead—who would it be?" I ask, amused and curious.
Zane blinks, shrugs, and answers with a shy smile. "I guess Freddie Mercury. I'd love to know how he wrote his songs. And maybe ask him how to be free in a world obsessed with labels."
The round continues. Konnor's turn. Vicky sharpens her question like a blade.
"Konnor, what's the worst drunk text you've ever sent?"
Konnor laughs, covers his face, and confesses: "I once sent my boss a dancing cat sticker and a message that said 'sexy kitty'... at three in the morning. No context. The next day, I saw the 'read' receipt. We never spoke of it again."
The answers flow, the ice breaks, and the night grows lighter—sprinkled with complicity and that sweet rush that comes with shared confessions.
Between rounds, the questions and dares tangle together, and the warmth of the crowd melts away any leftover shame. There are silly admissions and awkward jokes, but also truths that peek out—like lightning behind curtains. My heart races when the bottle points at me. All eyes fall on me, waiting for a revelation I'm not sure I'm ready to give.
Vicky, with her tilted smile and that gaze that dismantles any armor, wastes no time. She leans slightly forward, as if the spinning bottle obeys her too.
"Well, it's your turn," she says, and the air thickens with expectation. "If you had to confess one secret—something no one here would ever guess—would you dare? And if yes... what would it be?"
The laughter fades. The background music dims in my ears, like the whole room shrinks into our little bubble of confessions. I bite my lip, feel my palms sweat, and meet Vicky's unwavering stare. It's one of those moments when the game stops being innocent, and the night promises a before and after.
In the end, I decide I have nothing to lose. These small encounters have created a sense of closeness, like this is the group I was always meant to belong to. But they don't really know me. They can't tell if what I say is half-truth or a lie dressed in vulnerability.
"I'm the puppet of a very powerful man in organized crime, and I'm running from a fate I don't want," I say, without hesitation. My biggest, truest secret. My voice is steady, my eyes serious. I don't know if I said it out of courage or desperation. But as the words leave my mouth, something inside me breaks... or maybe it finally sets itself free.
The group freezes—like animated characters caught mid-frame. Their expressions range from shock to doubt to fear. Vicky covers her mouth, torn between nervous laughter and disbelief. Maeson searches my eyes, trying to figure out if this is a dark joke, a provocation, or a half-truth he'll never fully grasp. Zane looks at me like he somehow already knew.
Then Konnor breaks the silence with his signature laugh—disarming and absurd. "Girl, of all people, you should know that playing into your country's stereotypes is not a good joke. So 'Puppet,' you're paying the price for that lie," he says with a mischievous grin. "The dare is simple: go out on the balcony and sing—at full volume—the first song the group picks. And no backing out!"
Wenn, who returned moments ago with Shawn and a trail of knowing glances, is already typing on her phone, searching for the most ridiculous song. Maeson raises his glass in silent agreement, while the rest start shouting titles and voting between jokes.
The warmth of the group returns, this time with a new spark: the thrill of watching me take the dare, watching me shine—or crash—under the orange glow of the streetlights, while the night and the city bear witness to our little pact of improvised friendship.
After a chaotic, laughter-filled vote—where everyone defends their favorite song with absurd arguments and wild bets—the verdict strikes like lightning: "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone.
There's a moment of solemn silence, as if the entire night weighs the mythical power of that choice. I've never sung in front of anyone. I feel the vertigo crawl up my spine. But the cheers and whistles, the warm sway of the group behind me, push me to the edge of the balcony.
City lights twinkle below. The breeze tousles my hair. Everyone gathers behind me, each with their own mix of anticipation. I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, reality feels both distant and so close I could touch it: tonight, I can be free.
The melody starts timidly, barely a whisper. But the first words float into the air—and strangely, they don't break. My hands tremble, but my voice grows, fed by the group's energy and the glow of their presence. And then, among all those faces, I find a pair of gray eyes that never look away.
In those eyes, there's no judgment. No surprise. Just that strange calm that appears when someone sees you—without filters, without masks. It's like a gentle current that holds me and lifts me.
And as my voice grows stronger, merging with the city lights, the song flows powerfully into the night. I discover that perfect, fleeting moment—where fear gives way to joy, and the whole group vibrates with me.
Because yes, tonight, absurd and imperfect as it is, we're all feeling free and new—like the song, like the fresh air on the balcony, like the secret promise of a friendship beginning to write its own future.
I knew this wasn't just a party. It was a shared confession. A promise made in laughter. A truth that sings when it can no longer be silenced.