Blues: Blue Star

New Star Rising

Seattle

Nova

THE still of the night is where I belong.

That moment when the streets of Seattle stop bellowing with their blistering brawls and car horns. That moment when my neighbors' kids stop galloping above me, finally desisting from making my ceiling rattle with their weights. That moment when my phone stops chiming with my father's unending calls, finally assured that my door is secured with a dozen locks.

Only then that I unwind and unload those leaden bulks off my chest, embracing the rare moments of concord I share with the world.

But here, in Emerald, I don't belong.

I don't know if it's the clangorous music or the foul smell that saturates the air. I don't know if it's my timidity and incompetency to have fun, or if it's people's capability to enjoy something that I have never experienced before. It's not like I have never been to a nightclub before, but Emerald is what you consider your local discotheque; rowdy music, vile drinks and gum-chewing bartenders with rotten teeth and sly smirks.

So familiar, yet so exotic to me.

I have been to those top-notch clubs with Seattle's corps d'elite, drinking what I was allowed, and acting the way I was instructed.

An exemplar that my dad created.

A golden vesture in which I am supposed to repose and feel on top of the world.

But I don't, and I can't shun the feeling that I never will.

It is a huge chasm that I am supposed to tower over, unaffected by the emptiness flurrying within. Yet, I am slipping down its recess, battling the demons flying about.

I can only hope they don't spirit me away.

"I don't like that faraway look you have on your face." Marsha, my closest friend, abruptly yells in my ear over BTS singing about what sounds like their lost bag, jolting me out of my stupor. "How many times do I have to repeat it? He. Is. Not. Coming! His family's business is in piping hot water, and he no longer hangs out at Emerald!" She rants, concluding her speech with a sip of her martini.

I open my mouth to voice another fib about me not giving a shit, before I am interrupted by yet another earsplitting horselaugh coming from the table neighboring ours, counterbalancing the slam-bang music blasting through the place. I look up, stealing a glance at its occupiers, my eyes emancipated from the danger of seeing a pair of gray eyes, yet somehow yearning to glimpse them, even for a fleeting moment. I blink at the table, only to be presented by the people I hate the most.

The Folks.

Except that I don't really find them the way I recall them.

My eyes smart and my insides cringe at the long, messy hair facing me, immediately recognizing Trent's dark curls. And there is Dylan Evans, who is leaning back in his worn apparel of glory, his right arm draped over the back of the stool next to his, and his eyes spangling like a shiny piece of diamond as he stares at the brunette seated alongside him—a brunette that I saw tonight for the first time.

It is hard to keep up with scuttlebutts and stories when you live in another state, but the one thing that got me floored after Alexa's leave-taking was her brother finally getting in a real relationship and moving to another city...for the girl he loves. It sounded like a complete, utter thigh-slapper, until I saw him in action.

I've left this city four years ago, an impetuous, young girl with impatience for a future that I couldn't see here, with a mania for any place that didn't involve the boy I loved beyond illustration. I drew a road map that leads away from this city, and somehow, it led me back. Somehow, I was destined for the only successful upshot of my escape.