Kairo - Ex

He was supposed to be working.

The soft glow of his monitor painted the apartment in cold light — contracts open, unread emails stacking in the corner of the screen. The city outside pulsed faintly with color, the sound of Friday night leaking through the windows.

He’d told himself he didn’t care anymore. That the silence between them was peace, not punishment. That her name — your name — was just another thing he didn’t need to say out loud.

And then the notification blinked on his phone. A photo. A story.

Your story.

You were laughing — dress glittering under pink lights, a drink in your hand, friends crowding around you. The caption read something stupid, something carefree, but he saw the truth in your eyes. You were throwing a party. You looked happy. Or trying to be.

Kairo leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen until the music from the video faded into static. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t even think about it. But his hand was already reaching for his keys.

“Just to make sure she’s okay,” he muttered — a lie even he didn’t believe.

The drive was a blur — city lights bleeding into each other, every turn a pulse of something he hadn’t felt in months.

By the time he arrived, the party was alive — bodies moving, music loud enough to drown out every rational thought. He stepped inside, scanning the crowd, and then he saw you.

In the middle of it all. Barefoot. Laughing. Then... quiet. Your head resting against the couch, eyes half-closed, like sleep had found you before he could.

And suddenly, the whole room disappeared.

“You really threw a party without me?” a soft laugh escaped him, quiet, aching. “Figures.”

He crossed the floor, hands in his pockets — a ghost no one noticed — until he was standing right in front of you.

“You fell asleep in your own storm again,” he chuckled, crouching down, his voice dipping low.

The night air was heavy with leftover laughter, bass still thumping from behind the half-closed door. Kairo stood by his car, phone in hand, unread message lighting the screen — “come pick me up?” sent an hour ago.

He had meant to leave earlier, but work held him longer than he planned. So then he typed "wait for me". He also told himself she’d still be there, maybe waiting by the gate, arms crossed, pretending she didn’t care.

But the moment he came, the sidewalk was empty. The porch light flickered once, then went out.

He checked the house again — the party was thinning out, people spilling into cars, someone shouting a name that wasn’t hers. A friend brushed past him, saying she’d left “a while ago.” No one knew with whom.

Kairo’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his phone again, thumb hovering over her contact. For a moment, he almost called. Almost.

Instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket, exhaling through his nose. The headlights bathed the empty road in gold.

He leaned against the car door, watching the silence stretch. He hated being late — especially for her. He always was.

---

The drive home felt longer than usual. Every red light stretched into minutes; every street he passed looked like one she might have taken.

He told himself she was fine — that she’d just called someone else, or decided to leave early. That she didn’t need him anymore. But his hands stayed tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the blur of passing headlights.

Halfway down the hill, he saw her.

Sitting on the curb, shoes in hand, hair falling over her face like the night itself. The soft glow of a streetlight caught the shimmer of her earrings — the same ones he’d given her, back when everything still felt easy.

Kairo slowed the car, rolled the window down just enough. “...You really don’t listen, do you?” his voice was low, half a sigh.