WRITINGS ON THE WALL

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It was Friday evening, just past seven. The city buzzed with an unmistakable weekend hum. The wind held the fading warmth of the afternoon sun, tinged with the promise of rain. Along the Cliffside golden halo’s spilled over the parked cars. Crashing below in steady intervals, the ocean's waves rose through distant murmurs, losing themselves in the deep thrum of a bassline pulsing from within The Great Escape.

Inside the establishment, copper light from Edison bulbs struck the crystal faceted decanters. Drifting through the air, music wove between conversations. Near the back, the VIP area offered a more intimate refuge from the crowd. There he sat alone, drink in hand, his mind unnervingly quiet after a noisy week—relaxed, simply observing the room.

Just a short distance away, a dark-haired woman in her thirties sat unaccompanied. Keeping entirely to herself, she remained alert, self-contained, smiling in short bursts at her phone.

Under his quiet observation, she seemed more intent on soaking the scenery than seeking company. At the burst of greetings from the table to his right, her eyes snapped up from the screen, clipped his gaze on the way past back down. On pure impulse, he approached.

“Mind if I join you?” He casually asked.

Her eyes narrowed, “Yes. That seat’s already taken.”
 

Settling in the chair beside her. “Yeah, I know. I’m filling in.” 

“What do you mean?”

Watching the wavering candlelight for a beat, he said, “I’m a seat filler” and redirected his attention back at her. 

In the background a new song ferried is words. 

Like a cold counter-punch, her words met his intrusion. Unflinching, he erased the final inches until his warmth became an immediate provocation. Their friction caught over the rim of her flute glass. Around them, the room’s shadowed fringe funneled their standoff into a constricted corridor where every word thickened with intent.

Beyond that threshold persisted a rigid energy, tempered by the muted sheen of the room’s tempo. There the tension thinned. Past the noise. Past that barrier, neither of them felt the need to impress or instinct to deflect anymore. 

Out of the fold he extended his right hand “I’m Styles.” 

In that sudden pause rose her eyes. Across his face he answered with a kind smile.

 Into his palm her fingers weaved, “Nice to meet you.”

"Likewise." 

They gently uncoupled their hands, leaving their link unbroken.

For the first time in that evening, Styles found himself seeking answers poised beneath the surface. 

“Zoe!” Said a varsity friend, eyes alight.  “I almost didn’t believe it was you, how have you been?”

“Good” Zoe said, letting the word expand. “What a surprise, it’s been a while.”
 

“Yeah, I know. So have you finally settled after all these” She said, casually waving at Styles.

“No, we’re not together. He is—”
 

Amused, Styles jumped in, “A seat filler.”

“Oh, please.” the friend said, glancing at Zoe. “Is that really necessary in VIP?” 

Well, yeah — it tends to get overcrowded in here. This is how we ensure,” Styles added looking flirtatiously at Zoe, “Guests are well taken care for.”

“Wow, that’s a new one,” the friend said, dis-believing. Ignoring the voices calling to her from the entry.

Hugging Zoe, she said, “It was lovely seeing you. Text me when you’re free.” 

Upon her departure, a host approached Zoe’s table. “Hi— Pardon me sir. I noticed your table has been vacant for some time. Do you mind if I offered it to our other guests?

Toward the textured dials turned his attention, “Yeah—sorry. I’ll be there in a few.”

On the bare black lacquer of the tabletop clicked a single polished fingernail, she intervened “No, let them have it”
 

“No, I don’t want to intrude further.” Styles stubbornly said.

“You’re not. No one else is coming, plus I won’t be here for long.” Said Zoe, relaxed against the padded backrest.

From the host's stiff collar to her steady gaze moved his focus, before he relented. “Oh—alright. Sure, you’re welcome to it.”

Relieved, the host said “Great. Much appreciated. I’ll have someone bring everything over.”

Facing Styles, one leg crossed over the other, smirking Zoe said,“You almost had me fooled.” In a slow circle spun the ice inside his tumbler, offhand Styles replied. “That would have made me a fool.”
 

Mid-beat, off the polished surface came a blunt rattle from her phone. Down on her display Styles’ eyes read a male’s name. She paused. Pushed a button and let it ring mute flipped face-down. Now fully present, she slid a stray tuft of hair behind her ear, poised to speak.

Forestalling her words he said,“Come with me.” gesturing toward the balcony’s luminance.

Champagne stayed steadied in her hand as an internal debate played itself out. At the last dregs of her a decision clicked. 

“Alright.” Came her assent. From her side rose a leather strap, secure over her shoulder. 

Past the plush velvet rope, his firm grip led her forward toward the iron rail. Overhead, the ceiling arrays flashed a citrine and sage glare down across the main floor. Dance music fed static voices. Waiters, tables. Bartenders, empty glasses. DJ’s, the crowd. Then, through the haze coiled smoke a new song unfurled, daring everyone intimately closer: If it is what it is, go ahead with it…

Beside her slid his silhouette. “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

Downward to the crowd flicked his eyes, right back to her face. “The view.”

Over the entire expanse below ran Zoe's glance. “Oh, I’ve seen it before.”

“Sure, have you like me though?” He added, closing the distance between them. “Seen it through my eyes”. 

A fault line of desire ran under his words, daring her nearer. She let the room's beat swallow her tone and internal clock. As the music ebbed into silence, so did their conversation. However, beneath their chests an impossible pull flowed, imperceptibly. 

The venue darkened. Their heads turned. Their shoulders met. Their attention caught by what would come next. Down a single shaft illuminated a percussionist, whose mallets danced around the wooden bars. The crowd stirred. A second gleamed at the drummer catching each deep resonant strike. A third at a bassist layering the swell. On the floor, the atmosphere loosened. The moving heads converged, their beams overlapping into a single, seamless dome. Then sauntered across the ensemble. At the far end, its focus steered toward the center stage, where it carved out a lone mic-stand. The music stopped, momentarily, awaiting the vocalist surfacing from the shadows. In the bright white light, he stood idle, facing the crowd. Seconds later, the overhead rig bloomed in an even glow. Dim downlights met the floor and the grille, his voice. "Let's go." 

The band followed, on queue, as one.

Through the stacked crowd, an electric static arced. It held some bodies in a rhythmic sway, while other near the edges, others merely listed and observed. Around Zoe’s waist Styles looped his arms. Palms, pressed against her lower back, he drew her closer. The song, inward. With their torso's aligned, warmth seeped outward. Under the dusk-lit air, their breaths mingled. A few beats after, the music stilled. The interval tightened. Their mouths met. Their kiss deepened, till color suffused their surroundings.

At the break of their kiss, music reclaimed the floor in a slow, insistent swell. As the sensation sank deeper, an unwavering knock rose at her core. “May I see your phone for a second?” she asked. Styles placed it in her hand unlocked. A few taps after, her number appeared on screen. Flashing a smile, she said. “Call me.” and slipped from sight.

Bewildered, Styles tucked his phone away, settled the bill, and boarded a cab bound for home. 

Past the rain-slicked glass, streetlamps smeared, while in his mind the night looped. Vivid images came into focus. From her gaze, her smile and ghostly fragrance, her impression stayed.

For months they kept up a back-and-forth—texts and long, winding phone calls—but they never truly closed the gap. Though five states separated them, the deeper divide was rooted in her guarded history. Zoe, raised in the city by a single father who worked late hours, learned early to shoulder responsibility. 

Growing up, her father’s string of brief partners normalized impermanence, so she taught herself to keep her heart closed, portable. Her twenties were full of casual romances and ephemeral connections that fizzled as quickly as they ignited. Through them she discovered love’s quicksilver nature—brilliant, vanishing and impossible to hold without being burned. 

In time she built an adult life that preferred light, noncommittal relationships. Assuming time would erode her way of life, Styles upheld their arrangement. Even as she kept her past private, hope kept him present. He believed persistence could bridge both distance and habit. Nonetheless, his inexperience usually left him either insecure or displaced.

One Saturday night, five drinks in, Styles sent her a recorded voice message of his repressed feelings. Zoe, in the middle of folding laundry beside a half-full mug of chamomile tea was met with a notification: New Message - 11:17 p.m. 

Upon her second listen, she pictured the possibilities. For a moment, longing won, until the imagined future felt fragile in her hands. She couldn’t bring herself to open a door that would demand more than she had to give. Besides, she’d established a life of deadlines, travel, and freelancing that already required every margin of her. With that sure conviction, she pocketed her phone and tended to the laundry, folding each piece with inward focus.
 

Blacked out, the morning sun gleamed his face. After stirring on the couch for a while, he woke to no messages. A cold splash over the face and glass of water later, had him sitting in the corner beside his propped guitar. 

Along the fret board, his fingertips wandered. Against the strings the other hand gingerly produced a single low chord that blossomed into a gradual, reflective arpeggio. Each note dared say what he couldn’t. 

As the final vibration eased, a pale wash fell over the sky. Rain began to drum the panes. He crossed to the keys and unfurled a reluctant melody. 

A succession of thoughts took shape. Should I or shouldn’t not? Should I explain myself or should excuse myself? Am I asking for too much, he questioned further. “No, no, no, no” They all went unanswered. Instead, the notes revealed the unavoidable truth. They were ultimately misaligned. Above all, meeting halfway would only calcify into regret, leaving him culpable. In that blend of song, failing light, and rain he understood that however sincere his effort was, their inability to meet emotional or otherwise would dull the brightest of sparks. 

With the downpour’s end, the glass stood streaked. Through the balcony door the scent of wet tar. Motionless, he remained; hands idle, gaze hollow. Left out of words. Meanwhile, across the country, a shower cloaked Zoe in white noise.

Over the ensuing weeks Styles adopted a calmer lifestyle. Mornings filtered through worked. Noon’s into simple pleasures like walks in the park, hobbies, and casual outings. Across the divide, Zoe fashioned her own changes. Outside her regular routine, a painting class freed her from external pressures. Beyond canvas, she and Aya, her closest friend, occasionally went out, trading stories over wholesome meals.