Way Of Goodbyes.

Rhys

Thursday, 10:00 p.m

The bar at L’Avenue was mahogany, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the amber glow of the hanging Edison bulbs. I liked the bar. It was a border. On one side, the chaos of the Friday night crowd, the clinking of ice, the roar of laughter, the frantic energy of people trying to outrun their work week. On my side, just a glass of neat bourbon and the quiet hum of my own thoughts.

I’ve always preferred the edges of a room. You see more from the periphery. You notice the way the light catches the condensation on a glass or the way a person’s expression falters when they think no one is looking. I wasn’t looking for company. I was looking for a moment of stillness.

Then, the border was breached.

“Rhys? Rhys, you absolute ghost! Is that you?”

I didn’t have to turn to know it was Kyle. His voice had a percussive quality that cut through the atmospheric jazz of the restaurant like a drum kit falling down a flight of stairs. I felt a hand heavy on my shoulder, shaking me slightly.

“Kyle,” I said, turning with a small, reluctant smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Two years, man. You disappeared into those books of yours. Come on, don’t sit here in the dark like a noir protagonist. We’ve got a table. You’re joining us.”

I looked at my glass. It was half full. I looked at the exit. It was twenty feet away. “I wouldn’t want to intrude, Kyle. I’m sure you’re with—”

“Nonsense. It’s the old crew and a few new faces. No excuses.”

Kyle didn’t wait for an answer. He was already leading the way, weaving through the crowded tables with the confidence of a man who owned the floor. I followed, feeling that familiar tug of social vertigo. I expected a loud greeting, a round of shots, the usual performance of a night out.

Instead, I found the signal in the static.

The table was a mess of half-empty appetizers and wine glasses. Three people were laughing at something Kyle’s girlfriend had just said. But it was the woman sitting at the far end, framed by the shadows of a large monstera plant, who made the air in my lungs feel suddenly thin.

“Everyone, this is Rhys,” Kyle announced, pulling a stray chair to the end of the table, right beside her. “The smartest guy I know and the hardest one to find on a Friday night.”

The introductions were a blur of names I knew I wouldn’t remember by morning. Except for hers.

“And this is Noa,” Kyle said.

She didn’t offer a loud ‘hello.’ She didn’t perform. She simply tilted her head, her dark hair catching a sliver of golden light from the candle in the center of the table. She wasn’t smiling with her teeth; it was a subtle, knowing curve of the lips that felt like a secret shared only with the air between us.

“Hello, Rhys,” she said. Her voice was low, a velvet contrast to the sharp edges of the room.

“Noa,” I repeated. The name felt like a prayer I didn’t know I was supposed to say.

I sat down. The chair was close, closer than I usually allowed strangers to be. I could smell her. Not a heavy perfume, but something crisp and clean, like rain on warm pavement. It was a grounded scent. Soulful.

“Kyle says you’re a ghost,” she said, leaning slightly toward me. The rest of the table had already dissolved back into their own loud conversations, leaving us in a pocket of unintended intimacy.

“I think he just means I don’t check my phone,” I replied, tracing the rim of my glass. “I prefer the world when it isn’t vibrating in my pocket.”

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest instead. “I understand that. Sometimes the noise is just... noise. People think if they aren’t heard, they don’t exist.”

I looked at her then, really looked at her. Her eyes were deep, reflective. There was a gravity to her that I hadn’t expected to find in a place like this. “And what do you think, Noa?”

“I think the most important things are usually said in the silences,” she whispered.

For the next hour, the restaurant disappeared. I am a man of few words, usually content to let others fill the space, but with Noa, the words felt necessary. We didn’t talk about the weather or our jobs. We talked about why people are afraid of being alone. We talked about the architecture of memory.

I watched the way her hands moved as she spoke, graceful, deliberate. She didn’t use her hands to demand attention; she used them to shape her thoughts. I noticed a small, silver ring on her right hand, simple and unadorned. I wondered if it had a story. I wondered if I would ever be the person she told it to.

At one point, Kyle leaned over, grinning. “See? I told you he was a soulful one. You two look like you’re plotting a revolution over there.”

Noa didn’t look away from me. “Maybe we are,” she said softly.

The shift happened when the check arrived. The group began to shuffle, reaching for wallets, the energy shifting toward the next destination; a bar, a club, somewhere louder.

“You’re coming to the next spot, right?” Kyle asked, looking at both of us.

I felt the familiar urge to retreat. The “ghost” in me wanted to go back to the bar, finish my bourbon, and walk home in the cool night air. But then I felt a light pressure against my arm. Noa hadn’t moved, but our shoulders were touching. Just a fraction of an inch of contact, yet it felt like a bolt of electricity grounding itself through me.

“I think I’ve had enough noise for one night,” Noa said, her voice steady. She turned to me. “What about you, Rhys? Are you heading back into the shadows?”

I looked at her, and for the first time in four years, I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be a ghost. I wanted to be seen by her.

“I think I’ve spent enough time in the shadows,” I said.

As we stood up to leave, the cool air of the street hitting us as we stepped out of the restaurant, I realized the “What If” wasn’t a question of the future yet. It was the realization that my life had been a series of moments leading up to this specific sidewalk, under this specific streetlamp, standing next to this specific woman.

“Do you believe in fate, Rhys?” she asked, her coat pulled tight against the breeze.

I looked at the way the city lights reflected in her black hair. I thought about my faiths, my logic, my quiet life.

“I believe in moments that feel like they’ve already happened,” I said. “Like I’ve been waiting for this conversation for a very long time.”

She reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of my jacket. “Me too.”

We walked away from the group, away from Kyle’s shouting and the pulsing beat of the city. We walked into the quiet, two people who didn’t know yet that four years wouldn’t be nearly enough, and that a lifetime apart would be the price of the faith they hadn’t yet discussed.

But that night, there was only the sound of our footsteps in sync. And for a soulful man who loved the silence, it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard.