Page 12 of The Ache That Stayed

Callum hovered nearby at one point—present but never intrusive. Safe. Polite. Amelia spun with careless confidence, laughing until Callum caught her. Jonah attempted rhythm and failed gloriously. And Ritu shouted encouragement that helped no one.

I laughed. Really laughed. The sound surprised me.

Ritu leaned close, her eyes catching the lights. “Burgundy suits you,” she said.

I smiled, pulling her close as we hugged and danced. Jonah grabbed my hand and clumsily mashed together a twirl and a dramatic bow, his grin wide, his movements exaggerated like a parody of ballroom grace.

I laughed, breathless, letting him twirl me once, then pressed my palms to his chest and pushed him back toward Ritu. Their laughter folded around me, but I kept my own rhythm, unwilling to be anyone’s spectacle.

That was when the space behind me disappeared.

A hand settled consciously at my waist—steady, intentional, as if it already knew the shape of me. Every muscle locked. My ribs ached with the sudden catch of breath. His touch felt like a claim.

It wasn’t fear. Fear was loud and immediate. This was quieter. Deeper. The kind that lives in bone, not memory.

My body knew this kind of touch. Not the hand itself, but the way it pressed like it had always belonged there.

The certainty behind it. Recognition without context. Like hearing your name spoken by the wrong voice.

Like déjà vu without memory—a song half-remembered that still knew the shape of you.

His presence pressed close enough that my skin registered it before my mind could argue. His breath brushed the side of my neck—warm, intentional, like a secret pressed against my skin, speaking a language my mind had forgotten. Whatever it was, it lived in muscle and breath—not thought.

I stepped forward instantly, pulse skidding, heart pounding too fast for the rhythm of the room. I spun so fast I thought I heard my neck crack. But when I turned, there was no one close enough to accuse. Just bodies. Movement. Light and noise.

My nerves stayed lit long after the space emptied.

I told myself it was only the chaos of mixed drinks, the way gin and whiskey, colliding with noise and heat, conspiring to trick the body into believing ghosts. The way music and shadows could trick memory into seeing patterns where there were none.

I told myself some ghosts only lived where you invited them—when you were foolish enough to summon them.

Still, my hands shook as I slipped away toward the bar. My pulse was uneven, my smile forced.

“Shot,” I told the bartender, forcing steadiness into my voice.

The glass barely touched my fingers before Ritu slammed into my side.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You don’t spiral without witnesses.”

Jonah appeared on my other side. “Group suffering builds character.”

We drank.

The burn slid down my throat, sharp and punishing and deserved. For a second, my lungs forgot how to breathe. Then heat bloomed outward—chest, stomach, spine—reckless and immediate.

It felt like permission. To stop thinking.

To stop remembering. To just be noise and movement and sensation.

Laughter spilled out of me too easily. I let the room spin just enough to make me careless—enough that the shadows felt closer than they should. Enough that I didn’t stop myself when the glass was refilled again.

Jonah dragged Ritu back to the dance floor, while I lingered back at the bar to drown the noise pounding in my head.

For the first time since I arrived, I felt entirely unobserved.

I was halfway through another shot when a deep voice spoke behind me.

“You’ve had enough.”