After the Music Faded

Reality rushed back in the moment the lights turned on.

The music faded. The crowd shifted. People stood up, gathering their things, talking loudly, already moving on. The magic of the moment thinned out, replaced by noise and movement and the unmistakable feeling that the night was ending.

I stayed seated for a second longer than I needed to, trying to hold onto whatever that moment had been—whatever we had been—before it disappeared completely.

Then he turned to me. “Are you heading home already?”

“Yes,” I said. “But not right away. I’ll wait until the crowd thins out. I don’t really want to squeeze through all these people.”

He nodded, then fell quiet.

For a brief moment, I wondered if that was it. If this was where the story ended—no goodbye worth remembering, no final words. Just two people who shared a moment and then quietly returned to their separate lives.

Then he spoke again.

“I hope I can see you again.”

I smiled. I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.

“How can I see you again?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied lightly.

“I guess I’ll see you around. This city is small.”

It sounded casual. Safe. Like something you say when you don’t want to admit you care.

Just then, my phone rang.

It was my brother's girlfriend, asking where I was and telling me they could drop me off at home. We agreed to meet near the lobby entrance.

I hung up and turned back to him. “It was my future sister-in-law,” I explained. “They’re outside. I have to meet them.”

He looked at me again, like he was deciding something.

“When can I see you again?”

Before I could answer, someone shouted my name.

I turned around—it was a woman from work. We exchanged quick hellos, the kind you give when you’re already halfway out the door. By the time I turned back to him, the moment felt fragile, like it might disappear if I didn’t act.

“Add me on Facebook,” I said.

He shook his head.

“I’m not really into social media. Can I have your number?”

I hesitated.

It was fifty-fifty.

Half of me wanted to give it to him.

Half of me knew I probably shouldn’t.

But the wanting part was louder.

It is what it is, I told myself.

“What’s your number?” I asked.

He dictated it while I typed. Then suddenly stopped mid-sentence, as if he’d forgotten his own number. I didn’t know if he was nervous or if I was just reading into it—but the pause felt heavy.

After the last digit, I pressed call.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his phone rang. He smiled. I smiled back.

He saved my number. We said our goodbyes.

And just like that, we walked away from each other—into the crowd, into the night, into whatever came next.

I didn’t know then what that call would lead to.

I just knew something had begun.

And I wouldn’t stop thinking about it once I got home.