Igor and Maks were going to a house party in Lincoln Park, and I could not think of anything more unappealing than watching them wag their tongues at chunks of lead who wouldn’t give them the time of day. They hadn’t asked me what I was doing instead, having grown used to my disappearing act over the years.

The vast majority of my evening was spent sipping Canadian Club while avoiding conversation and dodging dance invitations. There was enough activity going on around me to keep my mind occupied. Between the constant stream of glittery queens performing on stage and the belles on the floor bouncing along with one another to the beat, there was always someone or something to catch my gaze. It seemed, however, that there was a particular target who consistently drew my eyes.

The sweetness of the whiskey’s dark sugars lingered on my tongue, and I licked my lips, making them tingle under my taste buds. Glancing over my shoulder at Abe’s Peach, who was laughing with friends, I wondered how he could look so impossibly charming in a suit. Though his features had looked soft and delicate a couple of weeks before, I now noticed the strength of his jaw and the confidence of his smile. But he didn’t notice me, which wasn’t a surprise. While darkness often sought the light, light didn’t search for darkness; it shined on all it could reach, but didn’t stretch. I wanted to understand him, something about him, maybe everything. I wanted him to reach me.

The small crowd of belles and chorus molls surrounding him made it obvious that I wasn’t the only person drawn to his energy. As they hung on his every word, my stomach twisted into a maelstrom of jealousy. I wasn’t sure if it was him I envied or those who basked in his radiance. It was unlike me to want attention, after all, I had spent a majority of my years avoiding it, but the way his admirers’ gazes illuminated his pale face and made him translucent, open—I wanted that. I wanted skin that seeped emotion from its pores and eyes that smiled when I did. I wanted to smile more, to have a reason to. I yearned to be that alive, and I hated him for being everything I knew I couldn’t.

I signaled for another drink and rested my forehead on my palm, trying to gain control of a mind that seemed intent on giving me problems if I didn’t guide its interests. Four shots of Canadian Club had made my thoughts difficult to harness. The next time I looked at the redhead, it was with disdain. He didn’t fight himself like I did. He didn’t struggle like me. Shaking my head, I tried to keep it together. Why was I so affected by him? So angry?