Flame

Someone screams—sharp, wrong—and the sound cuts through the music like glass. The crowd shifts too fast, bodies pressing, something already going bad before I even see it, something tightening in my chest.

I don’t think. I just push forward.

“Move—sorry—excuse me—”

Another sound follows—a fist connects, a body hitting something hard—and then I see him.

Miles.

He’s in the middle of it, gripping someone by the collar, barely steady on his feet, swinging like he doesn’t even know where he is.

“Stop—” I try, but my voice disappears into the noise.

The guy in front of him swings back harder. Miles barely blocks it, and my stomach drops as the realization hits.

This isn’t just drinking anymore. This is worse.

Then someone steps in—fast.

A hand grabs the other guy by the back of his shirt and yanks him away from Miles like he weighs nothing.

“Enough.”

Low. Controlled.

The guy struggles for a second. “Let go—he started it—”

“I don’t care.”

The grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little, and the room shifts around him like people suddenly remember where not to stand.

Miles sways slightly, jaw tight, still ready to keep going.

The guy finally lets his friend go—but only after shoving him back a step—before turning his attention to Miles.

Slowly. Measured.

He looks at him once—calm, unreadable. Like he’s done this before. Too many times.

“Walk away,” he says.

Miles lets out a dry laugh. “Or what?”

A brief pause.

“You’re not even here,” he says quietly. “So don’t pretend you are.”

Something in my chest tightens.

Miles freezes for half a second, like the words actually land—like they hit somewhere deeper than they should.

He takes one small step closer. Not aggressive—worse. Deliberate.

“Go home,” he adds. “Before you make this worse for yourself.”

Silence presses in around them.

Miles holds his gaze—then looks away first.

And just like that, it’s over.

I finally see his face.

And for a second—he’s already looking at me.

Not surprised. Not curious.

Like he noticed me long before I ever noticed him.

Then he turns away.

Like none of it mattered.

There are people everywhere as I move through the bar, trying to find him again. For a moment, I swear someone is watching me—but when I look up, there’s nothing. Just noise. Movement. Heat. And a place that feels like it’s swallowing everything whole.

My brother isn’t answering his phone. Again. And it’s my job to stay here until I can take him home. Third time this week.

My fake ID feels heavier in my pocket than it should. His idea, of course.

“You need some fresh air,” he said.

Yeah. Right.

I’m not here for fresh air. I’m here to pull him out before this place finishes what it started.

I push deeper into the crowd, not even sure what I’m looking for anymore. I don’t even know what his friends look like—if he even has any. I’ve never met them. Never asked. Maybe I was afraid of what the answer would be.

I exhale slowly.

I’m so tired it almost hurts, and tomorrow is my first day at a new school. New people. New life. Like that changes anything.

If I don’t find him soon, I’ll be the one who collapses first.

I glance toward the bathrooms. Men’s restroom.

Of course.

There’s no way I can go in there. I press my fingers to my phone again.

No signal. No answer. Nothing.

2:15 a.m.

Way too late.

I should leave. I should go home.

But I don’t.

I walk the room again, slower this time. The bar is full of older men—drunk, loud, careless in a way that makes my skin crawl. Not boys. Not even close. Men who look through me instead of at me.

I keep my gaze down.

Still, someone always finds me.

Last time, someone offered me a drink. I said no. He didn’t like that.

I turn toward the other side of the room—and collide with someone.

Hard.

A hand catches my arm before I can even stumble back properly, steadying me just enough that I don’t fall into the crowd.

For a second, everything goes quiet in a way it shouldn’t in a place like this.

Then I look up.

It’s him.

The same man from earlier. The one who stepped between Miles and the fight like it meant nothing. Like people didn’t mean to him what they meant to everyone else.

Now he’s right in front of me.

Closer than he should be.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t apologize.

Just looks at me like I’m not an accident.

Like I was expected.

My throat tightens for no clear reason.

“Sorry,” I say—too fast.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s trying to place something he already knows.

Then, quietly:

“It’s fine.”

Two words. Simple. But they don’t feel simple.

I step past him before my brain catches up with what just happened, slipping back into the noise of the bar, into Miles, into everything I came here for.

But even as I walk away, I feel it.

Not his touch. Not his voice. Just the awareness of him still standing there.

Watching.

And that’s the part that doesn’t leave.

Because later—when I should be thinking about anything else—I realize I remember the exact way he looked at me.

Like I had interrupted something.

Or started it.

I step back quickly, my heart tightening for reasons I don’t want to name. It almost feels like I could disappear in a place like this. Like I already am.

I move faster now, heading toward the bathrooms again.

It’s quieter there. Fewer people. Fewer eyes.

I need air. Space. Anything.

I try to call him again. Still nothing. Frustration rises in my chest—sharp and hot.

And then—

The bathroom door opens. A familiar face steps out.

Miles.

I stop immediately.

Too drunk. Again.

I don’t even try to hide the anger in my voice: “Do you know what time it is?”

He barely looks at me.

“No.”

Something inside me snaps.

“It’s my first day of school tomorrow, Miles. I can’t just walk in there like a zombie because you disappeared again.”

He shrugs slightly, like it doesn’t matter.

“Then let’s go home.”

And just like that, he walks past me. Like I’m the one delaying him. Like I’m the problem. My hands are shaking when I follow him out.

The car ride is silent. He doesn’t speak. Not once. Not even when we get home.

I help him take off his coat, hang it up, and watch as he disappears down the hallway without another word, closing his door behind him. And just like that, the anger drains out of me. Because I remember.

Before everything fell apart, Miles wasn’t like this. He was on top of everything. A career. A future. Friends. A girlfriend he was going to propose to. A ring.

And now—

Nothing.

Just silence and empty nights. And I don’t know how to fix something that’s already broken beyond repair.

I wash off my makeup slowly, like I’m trying to erase the night with it. My eyes feel heavy as I change into my nightgown and collapse into bed. The apartment is too quiet now. Too still.

Tomorrow is going to hit me like a truck.

And somehow...

I already know something isn’t right. Not about tonight. Not about Miles. About everything that’s coming next.

2:55 a.m.

I fall asleep before the clock hits three.