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She sat in the room filled with people laughing loudly over the vinyl being played by the DJ.

The bar is crowded with people shouting their drinks at the bartenders. She’s on chocolate mushrooms and would kill for a sip of a vodka soda water. Instead, she lights her cigarette and looks to the crowd, eyes searching for her friend. He’s dancing right in front of the DJ, as per the usual. Everyone appears to be enjoying themselves. From the looks of the conversations, people seem happy. She feels a sense of unbelonging. A sort of imposter syndrome. Is it the lack of alcohol in her system? Is it the lack of closeness she feels to those around her? She always admired getting to know others on a deeper level after having a few drinks.

She sees the man who attempted to coerce her into a drink earlier in the night, making his way through the crowd, eyeing the empty seat next to her. Immediately, she braces herself for the pointless conversation that is about to commence. She throws on her sunglasses in hopes her eyes don’t give away her disinterest. She has a quick flashback to the most recent party she attended—blackout drunk, dancing with him. Prior to that, they had engaged in conversation when she had first become single. She was intrigued by the accent and charisma. He bought her a drink, and they had a brief conversation about the nightlife scene. After that, it would be a few run-ins at afters, and the usual would transpire. A short conversation about the most recent parties attended, and how they should meet up outside of the afters, which always resulted in never meeting up anywhere beyond a warehouse in DTLA at 4 a.m. The blackout night would have been a night for the books, had she been a less self-aware person. She danced with said gentleman while the one she really wanted to dance with watched. In an effort to both comfort herself and check herself with the harsh reality that the one she really wanted to dance with was not only adamant that they were just friends, nothing more, but was also standing with the gorgeous model—someone she could never compare to—she danced and drank and dove into the pointless conversations until he was no longer a thought on her mind, promising herself that none of that hurt, because again, they are just friends, and she knew it.

Back at the room filled with happy people, the gentleman plops next to her. He drunkenly asks again what she wants to drink. She smiles and declines a drink. He then praises her sobriety and asks where she’s going afterward. She did not want to go anywhere, even more so not with him. She felt a short sadness enter the pit of her stomach. She wanted to be around someone she connected with. Someone who could hold a conversation beyond “the next move.” Actually, she was feeling sleepy and wanted to go home so the following day could be filled with checking off her hobby to-do list. She’s reminded she’s not alone and that she had promised to have a long night out with her friend due to the holiday the following day. She kindly tells him she’s going wherever he goes and points to her friend.

“He knows all the spots, doesn’t he?” says the gentleman.

“He sure does,” she responds.

He whispers in her ear, “Wherever you go, I want to also. I want to talk to you.”

She smiles and says, “Sure, we’ll let you know where we end up.”

Immediately understanding that this simple exchange of words enabled the pointless connection to continue, she sighs. She stands up and lets him know she’s going to look for her friend. Through the crowd she goes, given compliments from drugged-out men. The fact she used to establish her worth based on those vain compliments disgusts her. She reaches the front of the crowd, says hello to several people, and reaches into her bag for the shroom. She takes a bite, then gives the rest to her friend. They dance. They exchange a check-in and a few giggles over his interactions with a few people. She’s back to her element—alone with music. After a few exchanges with others asking about where the after party is, she recognizes the desperation in those around her to not let the night end. She wonders what everyone’s story is. Were they running from something at home? Were they chasing after something? Someone? She reaches for her phone to respond to a message from her “just friend.” They had spent some time together, and the yearning for his presence was slowly creeping in. She missed him. She sends a quick text and goes back to dancing. The train passes by in the background, and the song hits a melodic beat that sends everyone into a state of bliss. How is it possible that she feels connected, yet so far detached? She looks at the stars and understands that this is a feeling she wishes to understand more. She says, “Whatever,” to herself and allows the shrooms to make her body feel good. After all, there’s no rush to understand ourselves, is there?