I shake my head and take a sip of my vodka soda. It’s not like I had much of a large selection of places to visit tonight. I needed to get out of my apartment. Do something—anything—that could take my mind away from my problems for at least an hour or two. This bar seemed as good a place as any to do just that. The ceilings are high, the light is dim, and the jazz music that’s playing from the built-in speakers is not too loud. Plus, the alcohol they’re serving is useful to take the edge off. All in all, this place is helping. So the guy can sit there if he likes. I’ll just ignore him.

Except it’s hard to ignore a person when they keep mumbling things that are incomprehensible half of the time. I keep thinking he’s talking to me, but apparently, he’s only talking to himself.

“…can’t believe this.”

I turn to my right and once again find that he wasn’t addressing me, but I do a double take when I realize he’s opened his eyes. They’re a light brown, droopy and red rimmed. But that’s not what’s most noticeable about them; they look so very sad. In fact, they don’t fit with the rest of him. Even when hunched, I can see he’s tall and has a muscular build. His dark-brown hair is curly and ruffled, as if he’s dragged his hands through it more than once. The skin of his forearms is sun-kissed, a nice gold shade. His lips are plump, too big for a man’s face, really, but somehow, it all works.

He’s stunning.

And he’s also deeply unhappy.

In my experience, gorgeous people always seem happy, or maybe they only hide their pain to let it out once they’re alone, but there’s no mistaking his state of mind. It’s easy to conceal the truth with words, but eyes don’t lie. That’s something my mom used to tell me over and over again. Before forgetting about me, that is.

I take another sip of my drink as I keep looking at him. Thankfully, his gaze is lost in space, so he doesn’t see me. Funny how I was complaining about him sitting next to me a few minutes ago, yet I’m the one acting like a stalker now. It’s not for the same reason guys usually look at girls, though. I don’t want to get in his pants—not by a long shot. What I do want is to know what’s wrong with him. Something’s eating at him, and it’s got my attention. Maybe if I learn about someone else’s real problems, it will make mine feel smaller. It might seem selfish, but after today, I need it.