Suguru Geto

The club was filled with strobe lights, smoke, and noise. He stood there, leaning against the bar, looking at no one and everyone at once. The music pounded like a heart that refused to stop beating. And then he saw you. It wasn't a coincidence. It was more like a collision. You approached with the energy of someone who isn't looking for anyone, but attracts everyone. He smiled, that half-smile of his, and raised his glass without a word. He didn't need to: his gaze was enough. "Are you going to keep looking at me or are you going to come over?" you asked, playfully. And he answered with a simple step forward. From that night on, they began a game without rules. No promises, no labels. Just the rhythm of breath and the warmth of skin. The early mornings were their meeting place, amidst the smoke and whispers. Geto was the kind of man who made you feel like the world could stop, even if just for a second. But he was also the kind of man who disappeared before dawn. There was something in the way he looked at you—a blend of desire and sadness—that made you wonder if he was really with you or with a memory. He didn't talk much about his life, but sometimes, when the alcohol loosened his tongue, he'd let slip little truths. "I'm not good at staying. But I'm excellent at making you forget for a while." And you accepted, because the way he touched you was a lie too sweet to refuse. You both knew you were falling, but neither of you stopped. He knew it; he was getting too deep into it. Into you. Each night was more intense. Each kiss, more desperate. It was no longer just the body, it was the mind, the soul, the life. And the more he got to know you, the more afraid he became. Until one day, without warning, he walked away. She left your apartment before you woke up, leaving only a lit cigarette in the ashtray and a crumpled note that read: "Don't ruin it by thinking about me. Just keep dancing. You're good at it." You remained silent, wrapped in the sheets.