When Someone Stays

The beat pounds like a second heart,

steady and unrelenting,

a rhythm that drowns out thought

but not the ache.

Neon smears across skin—

mine, his, theirs—

a kaleidoscope of longing

that no one will admit to.

I stand there,

swaying but not dancing,

hearing a song that only plays in my head,

“You were always on my mind.”

Always.

We talk in fragments,

half-sentences drowned

by basslines and bright laughter,

exchanged under lights

that promise too much.

His voice is soft,

low enough to brush my ear,

a sound I could fall into

if I let myself.

He leans closer,

and I wonder if he feels it too—

the silence waiting behind the noise,

the gravity pulling us toward

anything but that.

It’s not love.

It’s not even lust,

not really.

It’s the way he looks at me,

not through me,

as if I’m more than this shell

painted in cologne and cheap bravado.

I follow him outside,

the air thick with city sweat and June.

Our steps are unspoken agreements.

We are shadows beneath streetlights,

walking toward a place

neither of us will stay.

Inside, it’s quiet enough

to hear him breathe,

to hear myself think.

The walls are bare,

the couch sagging in the middle—

temporary spaces

that could never feel like home.

He doesn’t ask what I want,

and I don’t say.

We undress in the dim light,

not out of hunger

but necessity,

a ritual to prove

we’re still here.

Later,

we don’t drift apart

like the others.

His arm brushes mine,

not by accident,

and I let him stay.

The night folds in around us,

his chest rising steady against my back,

his warmth bleeding into the cold.

I want to say something—

anything—

but the words knot in my throat.

So I close my eyes

and pretend

this is enough.

The morning comes too soon,

pulling us back to ourselves.

He leaves,

like they always do,

but slower this time,

like he’s reluctant to go.

The door clicks shut,

and I am alone again.

The bassline from the night before

still hums somewhere in my ribs,

a hollow rhythm,

fading.

The city will wake soon,

the carousel will spin again,

and I will go back,

hoping,

aching,

waiting for the moment

when someone stays.

But for now,

I let the quiet fill the room.

It’s not enough,

but it’s mine.