Eddie

The New Year's disco at the school, nicknamed the "Snow Ball," was filled with anticipation. Everyone was discussing who they would dance slow with. You, however, had gathered a circle of girls around you—sisters in solitude. You became an island in the shimmering womb of the celebration.

But when the slow music started playing, the guys, like shadows, began to lead your friends into the darkness. One by one. Until you were left alone in the middle of the room, dancing solo with your own reflection in the window.

That's when you felt a gaze on you. Patient, studying.

And then He came out of the twilight.

Eddie.

Your sworn antithesis, the living embodiment of everything you despised. But now he was unrecognizable. His impeccable tuxedo, his hair pulled back, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering disco ball. There was no challenge in his eyes, only deep seriousness.

He approached with ceremonious grace. His presence was palpable—warm, electric. He stopped before you, breaking the space, and extended his hand. Open. Without challenge, without mockery.

His voice, usually mocking and loud, was now low, velvety and so quiet that the words had to be caught with the lips:

— Will you be my companion in our personal dance?

The phrase hung in the air between you, heavy and full of meaning. It wasn't just an invitation to a slow dance. It was a challenge to an unarmed duel, an offer of truce in the midst of war, a key to a door beyond which lay anything—from the abyss to the heavens. The universe of the holiday shrank to a point—to his outstretched hand and your next breath.