The music inside the house pounded like a restless pulse, echoing through the floorboards and shaking the solo cups stacked on the kitchen counter. People moved in waves, pushing through the heat and lights with slurred words and overcompensated laughter. It was the kind of party that looked better on Instagram stories than it felt in person.
Outside, the night was calmer. Cold air settled over the porch like a blanket, still scented faintly with citrus and burnt tobacco. Alexander stood near the railing, the glow of his cigarette casting a dull orange light against his scarred brow. His breath fogged in the air. He didn't smile, didn't frown—he just was. A carved silhouette with sharp lines and silent eyes.
He never liked parties. Not really. He came because his roommate insisted, because "you need to be seen, bro," as if visibility translated to connection. It didn't. Not for him.
He took another drag. Then the door opened fast—too fast. A blonde figure stumbled through, her hands trembling as she wiped her face, mascara smudging at the corners of her eyes. She wasn't drunk. Just hurt. That kind of pain was unmistakable.
Alexander turned slightly, watching.
She stepped onto the grass, barefoot and visibly trying to get away from something. Her breaths were sharp, shallow, and her whole body tensed like a stretched string. He recognized her. Everyone did. Elena.
The ballerina. The girl with the perfect smile. The one everyone knew, even if they didn't know her.
He exhaled. Let the smoke drift toward the stars before speaking.
"You okay?"
Her body jerked slightly like she hadn't expected anyone to be out there. She turned, eyes wide with surprise and defensiveness. "What?"
"I asked if you were okay."
A pause. Her eyes moved from his face to the cigarette, to the piercings along his ear, the shadows cast by his tattoos—and then back to his face. Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
"Yeah," she said automatically, then followed with a breathy, "No."
Alexander didn't press. He just waited.
She looked at him again. "You're… Alexander, right?"
He nodded. "And you're Elena."
She scoffed lightly. "Guess I'm not as mysterious."
"You'd be surprised," he replied, then flicked the ash off his cigarette.
A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but not quite settled either.
"She said I was fake," Elena said suddenly. "That I only care about being seen. That I use people."
"Elara?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Elena blinked. "How'd you know?"
"She screams insecure. And she watches you too closely when you're not looking."
A laugh escaped her—short, involuntary, surprised. "You do pay attention."
He didn't smile, but something warm flickered in his expression. "Sometimes."
Elena wrapped her arms tighter around herself. Not because of the cold—because she felt exposed. Stripped. "I don't know why it got to me. Maybe because it was in front of everyone. Maybe because she said it like it was true. And no one said anything."
"People don't like getting between a blowtorch and a mirror," he said.
She tilted her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"She was venting her own self-hate. But it still burns anyone who's too close."
A long beat passed. Elena looked away toward the street, her jaw clenched lightly. "I try so hard to be real. I know how I can come off, but I try. I don't always get it right, but I'm not… that."
"I know," he said quietly.
She turned to him again, something tightening in her throat. "Why do you care?"
He thought about it. Shrugged. "Maybe I've been there."
That wasn't the answer she expected. And it made her pause.
"You don't seem like the type people mess with."
"They don't. But that doesn't mean they see me."
That landed harder than he expected it to. Her gaze softened. "That's kind of sad."
"It's just quiet," he said. "Sometimes quiet is better."
Elena nodded slowly, teeth pressing against her lip as she studied him. Not like a curiosity—but like someone trying to read a language they didn't speak yet.
"You always this philosophical?"
"No. Just honest."
"Dangerous habit," she said.
"Sometimes worth it."
For a moment, they stood there in the muted air—two people who had no reason to be speaking, no context beyond this night. But it felt… unfiltered.
She took a breath. "Thanks. For not treating me like I'm dramatic."
"You weren't."
Another silence.
"I should go back inside," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Let people see I didn't drown in it."
"Or," Alexander said, eyes flicking toward the sidewalk, "you could walk. Let it breathe before you go back to suffocating."
She hesitated. Then looked at him again. "You're not what I expected."
He gave a half-smile, rare and understated. "Good or bad?"
"Still deciding," she said. This time, more gently.
Alexander dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot. "Let me know when you do."
And with that, she stepped down the porch and began walking—alone, but a little steadier.
He watched her go, his hands back in his pockets.
Something had shifted. A thread had been tied in the dark.
And neither of them knew what it would become.