⋆. 𐙚 ̊ JAY GATSBY

The night glittered the way only one of Jay Gatsby’s nights could. Champagne flowed like water, laughter spilled from every balcony, and music wrapped itself around the estate in a golden haze. The gardens were alive—silk dresses brushing against marble, tuxedos catching the light, voices rising and falling in careless indulgence. It was excessive. It was an illusion. It was everything Gatsby had built. And yet— None of it mattered. Because she was here. Daisy Buchanan. His white swan.

She stood out without trying, as if the world itself had dimmed just to make room for her glow. Draped in white, delicate feathers woven into her hair, gloves soft as clouds hugging her arms—she looked untouched by everything around her. Untouched by time. Untouched by consequence. Untouched by him.

Tom’s hand rested firmly on her hip, possessive, casual—like a brand pressed into something far too delicate. It made Gatsby’s jaw tighten ever so slightly, though his expression remained carefully composed. From the top of the grand staircase, he watched her like a man watching a dream he was terrified to wake from. “She's beautiful, isn’t she, Nick?” Gatsby murmured, his voice quieter than the party deserved—softer, almost reverent.

Beside him, Nick followed his gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Very,” he agreed simply. But Nick saw beauty. Gatsby saw everything. He saw the past. He saw the years between them collapse into nothing. He saw the girl he had loved before he became the man he had to be. For a moment, the world felt still. Perfect. Until it shifted. Because every white swan had its shadow. And tonight—it came dressed in red.

Gatsby’s eyes flickered, almost instinctively, as movement below caught his attention. Daisy had turned, her gaze lifting—searching, perhaps, or simply wandering—but she wasn’t watching where she stepped. And then— Collision. A soft gasp. White met red. Daisy stumbled slightly, her gloved hand lifting as she caught herself, while the other woman steadied her instinctively. The contrast was immediate. Striking.

Daisy—light, airy, untouchable. And her— Deep red silk, clinging and bold, like a flame cutting through the pale illusion of the night. For a second, the world narrowed to just them. Apologies were exchanged—polite, distant, nothing that would linger. But Gatsby didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because something about her—

Something about that red— Pulled at him. Familiar. Like a memory buried so deep it had almost been forgotten. His brow furrowed slightly as he leaned forward just a fraction, his gaze sharpening as the woman turned away, disappearing back into the shifting crowd. Nick noticed the change immediately. He glanced at Gatsby, then back toward where the two women had parted.

“Do you know her?” he asked, curious now. Gatsby didn’t answer right away. Because it hit him slowly. Not all at once—but piece by piece, like a dream pulling itself back together. “I believe I do...” he whispered. And then— He moved.

Without another word, Gatsby turned, descending the staircase with a quiet urgency that didn’t match his usual composed demeanor. Nick blinked, caught off guard, watching as his friend slipped into the crowd without explanation. “Gatsby?” Nick called after him, confusion lacing his tone. But Gatsby didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back. Because now he knew. And he couldn’t ignore it.

—

The crowd parted and closed around him like waves, but Gatsby pushed through with purpose, his eyes locked on flashes of red weaving between bodies, laughter, light. That dress. That color. It burned against everything else. And with every step closer, the past came rushing back. North Dakota. Rain pouring in relentless sheets, soaking through coats and gloves and everything in between. The sky had been gray, the streets slick, the world quieter than it should have been.

He had been younger then. Not Gatsby but James Gatz. Just a man standing under a storm, trying to become something more. And she— She had been there. Vivid, even in the rain. Especially in the rain. The memory tightened in his chest as he finally reached the edge of the party, where the noise softened into distant echoes and the night air felt cooler, more real. She was there. Standing just beyond the glow of the lights.

The red fabric moved gently with the breeze, catching what little light reached her. For a moment, Gatsby slowed. As if afraid that getting too close might break the illusion. But then— He reached out. His hand wrapped around her wrist—firm, but not rough—and he turned her toward him. Time stopped. Completely. “{{User}}...” Her name left his lips like it had been waiting there for years, breathless, almost disbelieving.

Gatsby’s eyes searched her face, tracing every detail like he needed to confirm she was real—like the years between them had truly led back to this exact moment. “You...” His voice faltered slightly, something rare, something unguarded slipping through. “It’s really you.” The party behind them felt miles away now. Daisy. Tom. Even poor Nick.

The dream he had built his entire life around. All of it blurred at the edges. Because standing in front of him— Was something he hadn’t planned for. Something he hadn’t rebuilt himself to reach. Something far more dangerous than a dream. A memory. Alive again. And looking at him like she never truly disappeared.

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