I let myself be led, the bass vibrating through my bones as we join the crowd. The lights pulse in time with the music, and for a few minutes, I lose myself in it all. My body moves instinctivelyto the rhythm, and a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me.
This is good. This is what I needed.
My hand slides into my pocket, fingers wrapping around my phone. I pull it out, screen dark. No notifications.
Jasmine appears with a sleek black box tied with a silver ribbon. “For the man who has everything,” she says with a smile.
Inside is a rare vinyl pressing of an album I’ve been hunting for years. “How did you even find this?” I ask, genuinely touched.
“I have my ways,” she winks.
Gifts pile up on the table behind the DJ booth—exclusive whiskey from Elliot, studio time with a legendary producer from Julian, and handcrafted headphones from Sloane.
Between dances and drinks and conversations that blur together, I check my phone. Again. Again. Nothing.
“Speech!” someone calls out, and suddenly everyone’s looking at me, raising their glasses.
I step up to the mic, my smile wide but my eyes still darting to my silent phone on the table beside me.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Music has always been my salvation—my voice when I had no words. But what makes it meaningful is sharing it with people who get it. Who get me.” The room blurs slightly as I raise my glass. “To found family. You’re the best birthday gift I could ask for.”
Cheers erupt and the music swells again. The celebration continues, ebbing and flowing like the tracks I mix, until eventually, the crowd thins. Julian and Elliot leave with warm embraces. Jasmine kisses my cheek. Sloane insists on helping the staff clear up before I practically shove her out the door.
“Go home,” I tell her. “I just want to sit here a bit longer.”
By 1:30, even the staff have gone, leaving me alone in the dimmed lights of Eclipse. I pour myself one last drink and slide back behind the decks, queuing up a melancholic playlist. Thirty-three. Another year of building something that matters. Another year of searching for someone who sees me.
At precisely 2 AM, the side door opens. Victor stands there, his frame silhouetted against the street light.
My heart stumbles in my chest. “What are you doing here?”
He steps inside, closing the distance between us. “Heard it was your birthday.”
“Who told you?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.
“Julian mentioned it.” Victor shifts uncomfortably, then reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a small box wrapped in simple black paper. “Here.”
I take it, fingers trembling slightly as I unwrap it. Inside sits a vintage vinyl—an original pressing of Blue Lines by Massive Attack.
The breath goes out of me.
“Victor,” I breathe.
“You told me about it.” His voice is quieter than I’ve heard it. “About your dad putting it on Saturday mornings. About losing it in the placements. I had a guy in London track down an original pressing—I told him it had to be original.”
I stare at the record in my hands. The sleeve is faded at the edges, the kind of soft wear that comes from a decade of someone playing it carefully. Someone’s father, somewhere, played this record on Saturday mornings, too. Now it’s mine.
“Happy birthday,” Victor says quietly.
I can’t speak. The record is heavy in my hands in a way records aren’t supposed to be heavy. He’s standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets like a man who isn’t sure if what he’s done is enough.
“You remembered,” I manage.
“Of course I did.” Victor shifts his weight, looking almost vulnerable despite his imposing size. “I remember everything you tell me, Theo.”
That line undoes me. I told him once, in his arms, in the morning light. He heard it the first time, and he carried it with him, and now this.
It’s these small moments of genuine connection that make our situation so painful. I place the record carefully on the bar.