Maeson
Seeing her there, standing at the edge of the balcony, surrounded by the hum of the city, made me wonder what it really means to be free. I felt a pang in my chest—not sadness, but recognition. That kind of beauty that doesn't ask permission, that simply arrives and demands to be seen. I thought maybe I'd never felt so close to someone, so deeply connected through a melody in such a short time. The night grew warmer, the group became a refuge, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself be part of the scene, let the moment wrap around me.
Because under the orange streetlights, on this balcony of some random bar, I looked into the eyes of an angel—and that angel smiled back. It wasn't her voice. It wasn't the perfection of the performance. It was the honesty. The whole world shrank to her and her voice floating through the air, and I, captive, found myself wishing the moment would never end. It was the way she began each phrase like a sigh and ended completely lost in the song. As if we weren't near-strangers who'd only met days ago. As if this moment belonged to us.
There was something sacred in it: the air charged with electricity, that invisible vibration that runs across your skin and makes you alert, like the universe itself paused to watch us.
I listened, and everything that weighed on me—trouble, secrets, doubt—faded with that act of courage. Each note left her lips like a promise, a brief flash of truth suspended in the air. And it wasn't professional talent—it was vulnerability, the tremble that turns into strength, the way she clung to each word to make it hers.
That night, we all agreed to head back to the house we share. It felt safer, with most of us drunk and buzzing, and it gave us a chance to end the night laughing, sharing a few more moments together. Only Vicky left early, citing important commitments the next day. I walked her to a nearby station and returned to the group.
The noise we made entering the house was like a wave crashing on shore—laughter, stumbles, overlapping voices as everyone searched for a spot among the couches and forgotten backpacks. Shane planted himself in the center of the room, dragging Konnor into his usual whirlwind of energy. They insisted the night deserved more beers. The rest of us protested—half joking, half serious. No one wanted to end up worse than we already were. But Shane and Konnor vanished and returned triumphant, cold beers in hand and the mischief of schoolboys in their eyes.
The conversation turned increasingly absurd and hilarious—stories of past drunken disasters, silly impressions of teachers, bets on who could handle the most drinks.
Then Konnor settled next to Vanessa on the couch—far too close. The air seemed to tighten. He started throwing flirty comments, the kind that toe the line and make others laugh but clearly made her uncomfortable. Vanessa responded with a strained smile, dodging the topic again and again. Until Konnor, emboldened by alcohol, tried to kiss her.
Konnor wasn't the enemy. But in that moment, his clumsy laugh and arrogance felt like everything I wanted to shield her from.
It happened in a flash: she shoved him hard, and the thud of Konnor hitting the floor echoed through the room. The laughter died instantly.
I jumped to my feet, surprised by my own reaction—probably acting under the influence of tonight's drinks, eyes burning with anger. I crossed the room like the floor didn't exist and stood between Vanessa and Konnor, tense, jaw clenched, ready to throw myself at him. I didn't know if it was rage or fear. Fear of losing something that wasn't mine yet, but already felt like part of me.
No one really understood what was happening. The air turned heavy. Zane and Shawn reacted quickly, pulling me back, while Wenn gently took Vanessa by the arm and led her to her room. The door closed behind them, and for a moment, no one dared say a word.
Konnor, still dazed and drunk, staggered to the bathroom. Soon after, the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting broke the silence. Zane and Shawn, oblivious to the drama, started chatting about anything—football, bad TV shows—just to fill the void.
And I, now alone in the hallway, stood staring at the closed door. My heart pounding. My thoughts clouded.
Tonight, among the fragments of memory and raw emotion, I began to sense that something was shifting—even if I didn't yet know what to call it.