The night presses close, all music and murmurs and clinking glass. We slip into an alcove where the air is thick with velvet curtains and the scent of possibilities. I feel him beside me, a shadow in this private half-light. "Tell me something real," he says, voice smooth and quiet against the din. He waits, patient, as I weigh truth against pretense. "I was an outsider," I admit, watching his reaction, measuring how far this honesty should reach. The champagne flute is cold beneath my fingers, and I trace its rim, needing the anchor. He leans nearer, not satisfied with so little, but willing to give more first. A shared smile, a shared loneliness, his childhood no less lonely than mine. We find the shape of our secrets in each other's eyes.
The gala pulses around us, too bright, too loud
