On Staying, Leaving, and What Lies Between
Halloween. Outside, the streets are filling up, voices echo between the houses, somewhere electronic music plays. The city warms up, pulls on its masks, becomes louder, brighter, less predictable. He’s still sitting there. A glass of water beside him, a wolf hat on the table – originally a gift for someone else, but tonight perhaps the best disguise he could have found. One that fits. Half play, half truth.
His friend canceled. In the past, that would have annoyed him – maybe he would have drunk out of defiance or overdone things out of boredom. Tonight feels different. Maybe because he’s rested. Maybe because something has quietly shifted over the past few days – a silent thought that he doesn’t have to live against himself to feel alive. He knows how nights like this usually go: going out, drinking, laughing, and then that moment when it all becomes too much. The fun tips over, the light turns harsh, conversations fade. And then the morning after, when it feels like something got lost – though he can’t say what.
Tonight feels different. Clearer. Kinder. He has nothing to prove – not to himself, not to anyone else. He just wants to see what happens if he simply remains as he is. Where will he go? Straight to the club, where the music roars and no one listens? Or to a small bar, where people smile without knowing why? Maybe he’ll just stay outside for a while, among the crowd, between costumes and voices. Maybe he’ll dance without a goal, or talk to someone just because a glance meets his. And maybe nothing will happen at all. Maybe that’s the magic – that for the first time, he doesn’t need to know what the night will bring.
The apartment is tidy, the air fresh, the mind clear. He could bring someone home if it happens. Or come back alone and still feel right. For the first time in a long while, both options seem good.
He reaches for the hat. Two gray ears look out into the night. A small wolf, peaceful and awake.
