Her
January 8, 2026 at 4:17 AM
Lou licked his swollen lip and winced—it hurt like hell. He was parched, too. He flexed his fingers, checking his mangled knuckles. The bones seemed intact; that was something, at least. He touched the simple leather friendship bracelet with the large bead. Goosebumps chased each other down his arms.
It was already light out. He’d probably missed his flight. Rolling over on the stiff hotel bed with a groan, he scavenged for his phone and checked the time. Yeah, missed it. Whatever… He didn’t really want to leave anyway. Didn’t really want to be alive, for that matter. The phone chirped once, but Louis shut it up. It wasn’t her. If it wasn’t her, he didn’t give a toss who was calling or why. He just didn’t care. Everything that went down yesterday replayed in his head like a film loop.
A small, cozy, smoke-filled club, barely half-full. A tiny stage. Cheap gear. Someone was up there playing something… Thank god you could smoke inside. He lit one cigarette off the stub of the last, but his fingers, wrapped around a glass of whiskey, were still trembling. She wasn’t there yet. Hadn’t arrived.
Louis felt like he’d finally lost his mind. Hundreds of miles from home, alone in a completely foreign country. At least he’d had the sense to sort things out with a local travel agency. They’d met him at the airport, got him into a hotel, helped him find his way to the club. Thankfully, even the waitresses here spoke English.
Lou picked the darkest corner he could find. The last thing he wanted was for someone in the crowd to recognize him. He’d never hear the end of it… He hadn’t come all this way for that. Deep down, he hoped he wouldn’t like her. Hoped she’d be a letdown. That he’d see her and the spell would break—the scales would fall from his eyes. That this painful obsession would vanish like a bad dream.
Thank god the lot on stage finished up and started packing away their gear. A silence hung in the air, and in that quiet, he heard her voice. He’d know that voice out of a thousand… The boiling water beneath his heart surged, kicking up a tsunami. He went hot all over. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one go, exhaled. Then he took a breath, like he was about to dive into deep water, and turned his head.
And—nothing. No spell broke. Instead, his heart went mental, thudding against his ribs so hard it felt like they’d snap. People were happy to see her; they were hugging her, kissing her… friends, fans, the lot. The club filled up the moment she appeared. She smiled, and these dimples showed up on her cheeks, making her look like a little girl.
Lou watched, mesmerized, as she walked toward the stage. She took her shoes off without hurrying, leaving them right on the edge by the monitors. There was a thin cord with a couple of bells around her ankle; they chimed softly as she moved around, adjusting the mic stand for her height. That barefoot thing made her look so open, so vulnerable, it took Louis’s breath away.
The band tuned up right there on stage. Seemed like that was the way they did things here. It didn’t take long, though, and after the first few chords, he finally heard her voice… The crowd pressed closer. Some sat right on the floor, forming a sort of amphitheater. Lou did the same, trying to get as close as possible so she might see him. After a bit of maneuvering, he was right there at the front.
Such a forgotten feeling—being on this side of it… Listening, not singing. Catching a look, not scanning a blurring mass of people. He didn’t understand what she was doing. It was some kind of shamanism. She just hypnotized this ragtag, long-haired, pierced crowd. They sat there like rabbits, watching her every move. Her voice was sometimes as tender as the chime of her bells, sometimes heating up into desperate screams. Despair and sadness—nearly all her songs were drenched in them.
Look at me… Look, oh please… Look at me, love… Lou repeated it in his head so fervently, he wanted it so much… She was casting a spell on them. He was casting one on her. And when her gaze lingered on him a second longer than on the others, he smiled back, his heart dying of happiness.
In the gaps between songs, she’d look at her palm, and Louis realized she’d written the setlist there. So childish. Like the dimples. Like her long, doll-like lashes. Under the stage lights, he could see tiny wrinkles at the corners of her almond-shaped green eyes; only those, and a certain look—like she was searching deep inside herself—gave away her real age.
She had a lisp. Just a tiny bit. You could hear it on the sibilant sounds. This unexpected discovery delighted Lou, like he’d found a treasure. He liked her more and more. Everything about her, every little detail.
His skinny arse was starting to ache from sitting on the hard floor, but it was such a non-issue he barely noticed.
Sadly, the fairy tale ended, as they always do, far too soon. She thanked the crowd—Louis understood that much. The music faded. The band started casing their instruments. Lou remembered the armful of roses he’d left on the table. Just ordinary roses. Blood-red. Thorney. No stripped stems, fuck that… Thanks to the agency, they’d sorted that too. Good thing he’d remembered that women like flowers… They’re supposed to, anyway.
He’d pictured this moment a thousand times. Played it out, rehearsed it… But in reality, all the courage he could muster was to drop the flowers at her feet while she was putting her shoes back on. He managed to mutter:
“Hi, I am Louie…”
She looked at the roses by her feet in surprise, then at him. She smiled. Said hello. Told him her name. And then apologized that she didn’t really speak any English.
The despair that had almost let go of him came crashing back. How?! How was that even possible? The whole world speaks this fucking English by now, but not her! And he had so much he wanted to tell her, so much to ask…
He rudely grabbed a passing waitress by the arm and basically demanded she translate everything he said. She listened, nodded, smiled. Then she said something back to the waitress.
“She says she’s very happy to meet you, she’d love to chat, but she’s in a rush, unfortunately.”
Louis hurriedly handed her a card—it had all his contact info on it.
“Call me… or write. If you want to, obviously…”
She looked at him, her arched brows lifting in surprise. He probably looked like a right idiot, some lovestruck puppy… Then she started untying one of her bracelets. She had loads of them, nearly up to her elbows. The knot wouldn’t budge, so she used her teeth. She made an impatient gesture for him to hold out his hand. She tied the bracelet quickly around his tattooed wrist. When her fingers brushed his skin, Lou shuddered.
Then she was gone. And he was left behind. With a massive void inside, as if she’d taken everything he felt away with her. All that was left was to fill that hole with booze.
At the bar, some local post-hardcore fan finally clocked him. Half an hour later, Lou’s head was spinning from all the faces, hands, and glasses. And then… the usual. Someone said the wrong thing… Or maybe he was just on edge, his nerves shredded… A scrap… a split lip, blood he spat onto the floor. Someone shouting, someone pulling them apart…
A taxi, the hotel room… A shower, warm at first, then freezing, until his skin broke out in gooseflesh and his teeth were chattering. He wasn’t drunk at all—not as much as he’d wanted to be, anyway. And after the shower, sleep was a lost cause.
He replayed every second she was in… God, she was beautiful… Now he wanted her even more. Somewhere in this city, she was in bed right now… Maybe not alone… And someone was touching her body, her hair, caressing her… Kissing those swollen lips… And it could’ve… it should’ve been him. Jealousy, love, passion, despair—this bitter cocktail filled him to the brim. Lou felt the heat rising. He bit down on the bracelet she’d given him, touched it with his tongue. It hurt. His lip was blown up. Such a welcome pain. He ran his hand down his damp, flat stomach. Closed his eyes. Well, it wasn’t his first time…
