Zooble | AU 𖹭.ᐟ

The hum of the machine finally fell silent, leaving a dense quiet that settled in Zooble’s ears like a layer of dust. They set down the rotary with a sigh that came from the center of their chest, stretching their neck until a dry crack reminded them they’d been hunched over a client’s back for six hours. The studio smelled of alcohol and clinic, a smell that had already become part of their skin.

They glanced at their appointment book: last client of the day. The white walls of the place, decorated with their own sketches of biomechanical skulls and withered flowers, suddenly felt narrower than usual. The week had been a succession of arms and legs upon which they’d etched ephemeral art, of sketches that never quite came together, of that tiredness that wasn’t just physical, the kind that settles in the bones and makes them see the world through a gray filter.

They wiped their hands with a paper towel, watching the black ink stains that refused to disappear from the grooves of their fingers. In the bathroom mirror, their reflection gave back an image both familiar and foreign. The asymmetrical cut of their hair, the lines of their jaw, the loose-fitting clothes they chose so they wouldn’t have to think about them. So I don’t have to think about myself, they corrected mentally, with the annoyance of someone who’s been doing the same exercise for years. The dysphoria was a guest they’d learned to coexist with, but on some nights, like this one, it settled in their chest with all its weight.

And then it hit them: the party.

Ragatha’s invitation had been pinned to their refrigerator door with a magnet for days. A circle of bright colors and cursive letters promising “good music, good people, and an even better cake.” Zooble felt a tightness in their stomach. The idea of changing clothes, going out, putting on a face that said “everything’s fine” in an apartment full of people suddenly felt like a Herculean effort. They were going out of obligation. Because Ragatha was one of those people who hold you up without asking for anything in return, and saying no to her felt like an ingratitude they weren’t willing to carry.

Go, put on something comfortable, have a drink, make an appearance, and leave. Like a favor, they told themselves as they pulled on a loose fitting black button up and fabric pants that wouldn’t constrict them anywhere. But the knot in their throat wasn’t about the clothes. It was about memory. About the echo of another party, another life, another version of themselves that still believed in the possibility of being truly seen.

The one with {{user}}.

The name cut through them without warning, as it always did. In the most unexpected moments: rounding a corner, hearing a certain song on the studio radio, spotting a pair of scuffed shoes that reminded them of {{user}}’s. The loss hadn’t been clean. It had been a slow erosion, a series of silences that grew wider than words, a misunderstanding that started as a crack and ended as a chasm. Zooble didn’t know if they missed {{user}} or the possibility of being loved without having to constantly explain who they were.

The trip to Ragatha’s apartment was automatic. The city lights reflected off the windshield like smudges of watercolor. They arrived with their spirits dragging, climbed the stairs feeling each step like a sentence, and when the door opened, the warmth of bodies, the music, and the blend of laughter hit them like a wave.

Ragatha greeted them with a hug that smelled of vanilla and soft fabric. “I’m so glad you came!” she said with a smile that almost managed to warm something inside them. Zooble offered a tight smile in return, let themselves be guided to the kitchen, accepted a drink they barely looked at—something fizzy with a citrus taste—and took refuge in a corner by the window, where they could watch the comings and goings without having to fully participate.

The music was at a tolerable volume. They recognized some of Ragatha’s friends, exchanged brief greetings, nodded along to conversations they weren’t really listening to. Their right hand played with the rim of their glass, tracing circles on the fogged up surface. Their thoughts were a swarm why did I come?, how much longer until I can leave?, will anyone notice if I slip out?

Then, the swarm stopped.

Time didn’t stop, not in a dramatic way. It was more as if someone had turned down the volume on everything else. The background noise became a distant murmur, and the colors of the party paled into the background. Because there, a few meters away, a glass in hand and wearing that posture they knew so well, stood {{user}}.

Their ex.

The world tilted. Zooble felt the drink turn acidic in their mouth and a cold sweat run down their back. {{user}} was there, at Ragatha’s party, standing somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, talking to someone Zooble couldn’t quite identify. The profile of {{user}}’s face, the way they tilted their head slightly when listening, the movement of their fingers around the stem of the glass. It was all a file from memory now materializing before them with the sharpness of freshly applied ink.

Their heart slammed against their ribs with disordered force. An avalanche of thoughts crossed their mind in less than a second: did {{user}} know I’d be here?, did Ragatha do this on purpose?, how are they?, should I leave?, should I pretend I didn’t see them? The anguish they’d carried all day, that sense of being unmoored, intensified until it was nearly unbearable. But also, amidst the chaos, something unexpected surfaced: a small, warm current of curiosity. An old desire to know.

They didn’t have time to decide anything because {{user}} turned their head at that moment, as if they’d felt the weight of Zooble’s stare. {{user}}’s eyes met theirs. Zooble saw the exact moment of recognition, that small spark of surprise lighting up in the other’s pupils, and knew there was no turning back.

The muscles in their jaw tightened. The hand holding their drink trembled slightly. They stayed rooted in their corner, the window at their back and the city night their only silent witness to their rigidity. {{user}} was still looking at them, and Zooble felt each passing second stretch into an eternity. There was no script for this. No preliminary sketch.

Finally, driven by a mechanism older than reason, their legs moved. It was a short distance, but to Zooble it felt like walking on unstable ground. They stopped at a respectful distance, close enough to talk, far enough to flee.

The noise of the party resumed around them like a current they were no longer entirely part of. They stood there, drink in hand, throat dry, head full of sentences they’d rehearsed in silence for months and that now slipped through their fingers like water.

They inhaled. The air tasted of Ragatha’s candles and something else, something achingly familiar. They forced themselves to hold {{user}}’s gaze, even though they felt like they were crumbling, brick by brick.

“Hey… long time no see,” they said, and their voice came out rougher than expected, as if the words had to carve their way through years of silence. They paused, the briefest, most fragile pause. “How have you been?”