Stopover

I first noticed something was different with Jolie three weeks ago—the way her eyes lingered on me a beat too long, how her laugh seemed to vibrate at a higher frequency when I was near. It was subtle at first, a shift in the air between us, but then it became impossible to ignore; she'd be electric, almost manic when we were together, and then—according to mutual friends—she'd spiral into strange, inexplicable bouts of melancholy when I wasn't around. I tried to rationalize it, to file it away as just another mysterious tide in the ocean of female emotions I'd never quite learned to navigate. And yet, deep down, I knew. Something had changed between us, something fundamental and terrifying, and I was too much of a coward to acknowledge what it might be.

She'd taken to touching me more. Small touches—a hand on my shoulder, fingers briefly against my wrist, the light pressure of her side against mine when we sat together during lectures. Each contact brief, electric, seemingly innocent. Sometimes, she'd say things that danced on the edge of flirtation, words loaded with potential meaning that I convinced myself I was imagining.

"You're the only one who gets it, Max," she'd whisper, grey eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my chest tight. "It's like everyone else is speaking a different language."

I'd nod and swallow and pretend that my heart wasn't hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

That night at The Anvil, the air was thick with dry ice and desperation. The former industrial forge had been transformed into a pulsing cathedral of sound, with the bass line reverberating through the exposed brick walls and up through the soles of my combat boots. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, illuminating snapshots of writhing bodies—a sleeve of tattoos here, a flash of bare skin there, the gleam of a silver lip ring catching the light for just a moment before disappearing back into the shadows.

I hadn't wanted to come out, but Andy had insisted. "You've been locked in that room for days, man. It's getting pathetic."

So there I was, nursing a lukewarm beer in a plastic cup, watching the world from my usual vantage point—the periphery. And then suddenly, Jolie was there.

She looked different tonight. Her hair was loose instead of in its usual ponytail, falling in waves past her shoulders. She wore a black dress that clung to her athletic frame, and around her neck was the silver choker I'd given her for her birthday last year. But it was her eyes that caught me—storm-cloud grey and electric with some emotion I couldn't name.

"Max!" she shouted over the music, throwing her arms around my neck. I caught a whiff of her perfume—something sweet and dark, like berries crushed in the night. "I've been looking for you!"

I felt myself smiling despite everything. There was something about Jolie that had always drawn me in, like a moth to a particularly dangerous flame. "Hey, Jolie. I didn't think this was your scene."

"It's not," she laughed, the sound somehow cutting through the thundering music. "But I needed to see you."

I didn't understand the urgency. We'd seen each other just yesterday in Comparative Lit. But there was something about the way she was looking at me, a feverish intensity that made my skin prickle.

She took my hand—her palm small but surprisingly strong against mine—and led me through the crowd. I followed, helpless as a paper boat caught in a current. We ended up in a slightly quieter corner, where the shadows were deeper and the wall vibrated with the bass from the speakers nearby.

"I have to tell you something," she said, her voice suddenly serious. "And I need you to just listen, okay?"

I nodded, a strange dread building in my stomach.

"I'm in love with you, Max." The words fell from her lips simply, matter-of-factly, as if she were telling me the time. "I have been for... God, I don't even know how long. And I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

The world tilted sharply. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, for her to laugh and say she was joking. But she just looked back at me, her grey eyes clear and steady.

"I think we should be together," she continued, taking a step closer. I could feel the heat of her body now, just inches from mine. "Officially. If you want. I think we'd be good together."

And then, before I could process what was happening, she was on her tiptoes, her hands sliding up my chest to curl around the back of my neck, and her lips were on mine.

The kiss was both electric and bewildering. Her mouth was soft, tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss and the cider she'd been drinking. I felt her fingers threading through my hair, felt the press of her body against mine, and for a moment—just a moment—I lost myself in it. My hands found her waist instinctively, and I kissed her back, a surge of something hot and primal rising in my chest.

But then reality crashed back in, and I pulled away, my heart thundering.

"Wow," I said, the word falling stupidly from my lips. "That's... that's a lot to take in."

Her eyes searched mine, and I saw a flicker of uncertainty cross her face for the first time. "I just thought... I mean, I've felt this thing between us for so long, and I thought maybe you did too."

"I need some time," I said, the words feeling thick in my throat. "To think about this. It's just... unexpected."

She nodded, but I could see the hope in her eyes dimming. "Okay. Take all the time you need."

I don't remember the rest of the night clearly. I stayed at the club for another hour, moving mechanically through the motions of socializing, but my mind was elsewhere. Eventually, I mumbled an excuse to Andy and walked back to my dorm through the damp November night, the cold air doing nothing to clear my head.