A house party

He saw something that he shouldn’t have seen across the smoking balcony windows. The cigarette slowly dying between his fingers, dropped the ashes on his festive black trousers, but he couldn’t care to the least. For a moment, he thought he was tripping. Pills, lines of coke, and Whiskey shots finally caught up to him. Behind him, the noise of two others faded into a far, far away space. He didn’t miss out on anything, cause they weren’t exactly talking to him anyway. He always got a gut feeling that the girl wasn’t very fond of him, and the guy was too busy getting her to bed. He slowly returned to the party room, walking past the crime scene in silence, avoiding eye contact as if there were any in the first place. No one knew that he saw what happened. In a room crowded with acquaintances and strangers, he sat down and realized he was completely alone. 

Take a look at him. A young man, barely older than 20, dressed in black from head to toe, sitting still on a chair with no arms. He was small for his age, but he looked even tinier in this party room. He had been hopelessly trying to insert himself into different groups before finally giving up. People moved in loose clusters, dancing, talking, flirting. The music was loud, but it wasn’t loud enough to erase his mind. 

Had he always been this awkward? The answer is no. The young man with a handsome face and delicate features, perfume notes of patchouli and Akigalawood lingered on his clothes despite being soaked in the rainy weather. Not the type that goes invisible in a crowd, quite the contrary. However, that day, at that birthday party, he wished he could disappear. 

People were laughing and joking nonstop. The two hosts were the life of the party, even more than the designated birthday boy. He watched them bewitch and enchant the crowd, giving out free booze and witty compliments carelessly, wondering if it must feel nice, to love and be loved like that. The hosts caught him glancing a few times. They looked at him friendly, but they didn’t see him. He reminisced about the times when it was he who hypnotized the crowd, then disappeared into a quiet corner with a few close friends. He was happy, yet there was always a black hole that couldn’t be filled. It surged and consumed him even in his happiest moments. Many times, he wished the time could stop, and they could just sit there together under the sky full of stars, smoking, laughing, drinking tea, and talking about how futile the universe is. No one felt lonely or left behind. 

His wish didn’t come true, apparently, because all he had now was this big party where he was the unknown and invisible, where everyone was having fun and had their own person. He had a voice, but it got lost and consumed by others. He lost track of how many times he asked a question just for it to vanish into thin air. Or the short-lived moment where he caught the attention, just for others to switch the subject. During the night, he saw more and more of that crime scene repeated. He finally accepted that what he saw was real. Why did everyone else seem so normal about it? Was he the only one who didn’t know? He didn’t see it coming at all. At least not from them. He thought they were different. 

Part of him knew he wasn’t truly welcome there, and he should go home. Yet he stayed and hoped for a different outcome that never happened. What did he see that day? He didn’t know if it was worth talking about and struggling for. He should pretend he didn’t know anything, cause it might open a can of worms and pissed off people who already didn’t want him to be there. 

Seconds, or minutes, or hours had passed; he couldn’t tell anymore. He started moving from the chair, mostly to feed himself more booze and drugs. He listened and engaged in conversations that were lost in translation for the rest of the night, wondering why these people were loved, but he wasn’t. The ones who could only talk about politics and themselves made him wonder if there’s anything at all that connects them. Yet again, if he was so amazing, why wasn’t he loved? Finally, he left the party, heavily sedated by drugs and booze, hoping the feelings would go away. Unfortunately, the party and what he saw that day would remain one of the most miserable moments in his life. It hurt more than he would want to admit. 

On the bus, he saw his old friend sitting alone. Her head rested on the window seat. Outside the rain kept drizzling. The bus windows were filled with fogs. All he saw was a blurry, colorful scene of neon and traffic light. He couldn't pretend everything was normal with his old friend after the party that night. She tried to talk to him, but she picked up on the clue very fast, so she left him alone. She had always been the one that could understand him and his temper.

He thought he would got off his stop silently without saying goodbye. He didn't owe her anything, and she knew very well what she did. Yet she choose to remain silent. Had she come and confessed to him, he'd have forgiven her. He couldn't count how many times they had ride this same bus together. Laughing and talking about all the vulgar and dirty stuff. They shared a mutual comfort silence that not everyone could understand. Now look at us, couldn't even look at each other face.

He would say a quick goodbye to her anyway, when his stop was near. He moved to the seat behind her without her noticing. He wanted to remain there silent cause the stop was still ahead. But something caught his eyes. He saw a big scratch on her green jacket shoulder, and suddenly, all of his cruelty and pettiness vanished into thin air. He felt like crying as if that was a little sad and lonely puppy sitting in front of him. He tap her shoulder on where the scratch lie. She turned around and they started making small talk as if nothing happened. Well, what's left to say anyways, his stop was near. They said a final quick goodbye, and he got off the bus and walked into the downpour without hat on.

He reminiscenced about the past some times. About the people and their relationships. About what he could've done differently. He didn't regret it. He handled things with dignity and left on his own term. His life very much got better, or the least stayed the same, after leaving that space and those people behind. Yet, he was allowed to reminiscened just a little bit, wasn't he? He imagined they were in the same room and then an emergency happened. He was there to save the life of someone they both cared deeply about. When the ambulance arrived to take the dying patient away, everyone turned to him. He received all these care and love and admiration again from these familiar, but faraway faces. He slowly stood up and went into a private backroom to calm himself down. He took some deep breath, and the the scene ended. Blank. Nothing else.