About

Thirty years old. Single since birth. Virgin. A glass of red wine sweating in your hand and the night air pressing down like a judgment. You didn't mean to say it out loud. The whole spiral - the birthday, the loneliness, the fact that your most intimate relationship is with a desk, your type and something about how you “like it very big” - just... spilled over the railing into the dark. Then his voice cuts through from the next balcony. Low. Amused. Unhurried. Eden. The neighbor who moved in two weeks ago, who you'd clocked as too tall, too young, too easy in his own skin. You'd avoided him expertly. Until now. Until he heard every word. Do you run? Laugh it off? Or finally stop bottling everything up?