Raye
Independence wasn't what I thought it would be.
I imagined something glamorous when I packed up my bags and left. The kind of freedom you see in indie films—dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight, candles flickering, the sound of rain on windows while I read a book no one ever assigned me. But reality hit harder than I expected.
What I got was a third-floor walk-up with peeling paint, buzzing light fixtures, and a shower that coughed out hot water for exactly four minutes before giving up on life. The mattress on the floor was secondhand, the pillows flat, and the heater wheezed like it had asthma. There was no dancing at midnight—only counting change and rationing groceries.
Still, I didn't regret it. Not even a little.
Because I finally had something no one could take away from me: my own damn space. No one yelling from the other room. No passive-aggressive remarks over dinner. No one who could tell me who to be or where to go. And that—despite the cold toes and noisy neighbors—was enough to keep me going.
I worked nights at Grady's, a run-down but loyal dive bar with creaky stools and a broken jukebox that only played 80s hits. On weekends, I picked up dog-walking shifts in a neighborhood way fancier than mine. It paid decent, especially when the dogs were good. Some of them were—like Millie, the golden retriever who thought she was a lapdog. Others, like Winston the French bulldog, had better wardrobes than I did and hated me on principle.
Between the bar and the dogs, I barely had time to think, which was how I liked it. Thinking too much led me back to Jay—and I had nothing good left to feel about him.
Jay called me boring. A buzzkill. A "deadbeat dreamer," whatever that meant. All because I didn't want to tag along to his illegal street races or hang out with his drunk, reckless friends who couldn't remember my name if I carved it into their skulls. He always said he loved me—but only when I was convenient.
I stopped being convenient the night I told him I wanted to move out and do things on my own. That's when the name-calling started. And the cold silences. And the guilt-tripping.
And yet… I still stayed longer than I should have.
I don't even remember the breaking point anymore. Maybe it was a thousand small things. Maybe it was just that I finally got tired of being tired.
All I know is I woke up one Monday morning, packed two duffel bags, and left. No tearful goodbye. No dramatic scene. Just a silence that spoke louder than either of us ever could.
That was four months ago.
Four months of scraping by, keeping my head down, and rebuilding piece by piece. It was hard—but it was mine.
Most nights, I'd get off work, make ramen in a chipped pot, and watch trashy reality shows while wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. I didn't party anymore. Didn't drink much, except for the occasional whiskey sour Mila would sneak me behind the bar. Didn't trust men—especially not the charming, fast-talking kind who thought women were trophies for surviving the night.
I just wanted peace.
And yet… I couldn't lie and say I wasn't curious about the man who watched me like he saw right through the armor I wore.
Wednesday night came with the kind of slowness that clung to the air like heat in August. The bar was barely half full, just the regulars and a few new faces that looked like they'd wandered in by accident and were now too awkward to leave. I didn't mind slow nights. They meant less chaos, fewer broken glasses, and more time to breathe.
Mila and I worked like a well-oiled machine—she handled the music and the people who flirted too much, and I stuck to wiping down counters, pouring drinks, and staying in the background where no one expected me to smile unless I felt like it.
"You're doing that thing again," Mila said as she slid behind me, her voice a whisper in my ear.
"What thing?" I muttered, reaching for a clean glass.
"That thing where you get all tense and mysterious right before he walks in."
I froze, fingers tightening around the glass. "He's not even here yet."
"Exactly," she said, smirking. "But your spine knows. It's like he has a gravitational pull and your body's just reacting."
I rolled my eyes but smiled despite myself. "You're ridiculous."
"Nope," Mila said, popping the 'p' and flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. "You just don't want to admit that your silent, brooding admirer is very obviously obsessed with you."
"He's not obsessed," I said, shaking my head. "He's just... consistent."
She grinned. "Consistently obsessed."
Before I could answer, the door creaked open.
I didn't even have to look.
The air shifted—just slightly, but I felt it like a drop in temperature. Goosebumps rippled up my arms. I looked up, already knowing who I'd see.
Him.
He stepped in like a shadow had peeled itself from the night and walked through the door. Dressed in black, like always—button-up shirt, dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His shoulders were broad, posture straight but loose, like he didn't have to try to be intimidating. He just was.
His eyes flicked across the room, landing directly on me.
Not Mila. Not the other bartender who sometimes filled in on weekends. Not the bar. Not the drinks. Not even the tips jar that had a sticky note begging for "beer money & emotional healing."
Just me.
He walked to his usual spot at the end of the bar, farthest from the door, half-shadowed by the flickering light above. He sat without a word, resting his forearms on the counter like he always did—quiet, still, waiting.
I didn't need to ask. I reached for the tap.
"One dark lager," I said softly as I poured, pretending I didn't feel heat climb up my neck.
I placed it in front of him with careful fingers.
He didn't speak. He never did.
But his eyes met mine for a fraction longer than they should have.
That look... it always made me feel like I was being seen—not watched, not sized up, but seen. Like he could read the tired behind my eyes and the ache in my spine and the way I wanted so badly to believe someone might actually stay.
He reached into his coat pocket.
My heart did a stupid little flutter I pretended not to notice.
Out came the black rose.
Fresh. Perfect. Petals like velvet. The stem neatly trimmed, wrapped with a ribbon. No note. No card. Just the rose. As always.
He set it on the bar without looking at it. Just placed it down in front of me like a ritual he would never dare break.
My breath caught for a second. I blinked it away and nodded—grateful, as always, and unsure why this man I didn't know could make me feel more understood with one flower than Jay ever did with a hundred empty compliments.
He took a slow sip of his beer—never more than two or three—then stood, dropped a twenty-dollar bill beneath the glass, and left without a word.
Like clockwork.
I watched the door swing shut behind him and let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Okay but seriously?" Mila leaned in, eyebrows raised. "That man comes in here, looks at you like you hold the meaning of life in your palms, and you're telling me this is normal?"
"It is normal. For him."
"And the rose?" she said, glancing at it. "What number is this?"
I glanced at the others, tucked safely in my locker in the back. "Thirteen."
Mila let out a low whistle. "Girl, that man is head over heels in love with you."
I gave her a look. "You don't fall in love with someone you've never spoken to."
She shrugged. "Maybe not in your world. But in his? Who knows."
I didn't have a response to that. So I just stared at the rose. The way it sat there—delicate, intentional, silent.
Kind of like him.
The night air hit my face the second I stepped out of the bar, carrying the scent of damp pavement, cigarette smoke, and cheap street food from the vendor two blocks down. I cradled the rose carefully in one hand and tugged my coat tighter around myself with the other. The stem was wrapped in a silky black ribbon, like always, the petals full and heavy with something that felt too important for words.
I could still feel the weight of his eyes on me.
Even now, hours later.
The walk home wasn't long, but it always felt like another world—leaving behind the neon lights, sticky bar floors, and Mila's knowing looks. The city got quieter the closer I got to my building. Like it was winding down for the night, curling up in itself.
By the time I climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment, my body ached in that bone-deep way that made me fantasize about disappearing under a blanket and not moving for a week. My key stuck in the lock—again—and the hallway light flickered ominously behind me as I finally shoved the door open and stepped inside.
Silence.
My place smelled like cinnamon from the candle I forgot to blow out this morning, and the faintest hint of dog on my jacket. I kicked off my boots, set the rose down gently on the kitchen counter, and shrugged off my coat. The heating hadn't kicked in yet, so I kept my socks on and layered a hoodie over my tank top.
I crossed the room and looked at the windowsill.
There, in an old mason jar, were the others. Twelve black roses. Some dried into delicate curls, others stiff and perfect, preserved in ways I couldn't explain. I'd tried throwing them out once, but something in me couldn't do it. It felt like betrayal.
So I kept them.
One by one, week after week, they showed up. Always from him. Always quiet. Always there.
This one made thirteen.
I lifted it gently, threading it into the jar like it had been waiting for its place all along. The ribbon brushed against my wrist as I adjusted it, and for a second, I just stood there, staring at the collection. My private little secret garden made from something I couldn't name.
He never spoke. Never smiled. Never touched me.
But he saw me.
That truth had taken root in me slowly. First as suspicion, then curiosity. And now… now it just lived there, like something I couldn't un-know. I didn't tell Mila, but sometimes—when the nights were long and I was too exhausted to dream—I'd imagine what his voice sounded like. If it was deep. Smooth. Rough around the edges. If he would say my name like it meant something.
I didn't know why he came every week. Why he only ordered when I was there. Why the same drink. Why he watched so intently. But I knew he wasn't dangerous—not in the way the world tried to convince me men like him were.
Jay had been dangerous. The kind that crept into your bones and hollowed you out slowly, with compliments wrapped in control. His words were sharp, even when he smiled. His love conditional. A reward for being quiet. For being agreeable. For showing up when he wanted me to.
But Mystery? He never asked for anything. Never expected. Never tried to own.
Just left a flower like he was marking the days with me.
I crawled onto my mattress and pulled the blanket over my legs, reaching for my phone. No missed calls. A few unread messages from Mila. A promo text from the pet-sitting app I used. Nothing from Jay.
I didn't expect him to message me, not after our last fight. He'd called me ungrateful, said I was too wrapped up in my sad little life to appreciate someone like him. That he had options. Girls who were "more fun." Girls who came to his races and didn't ask him to slow down.
He was right.
I wasn't fun. I was tired. And maybe a little sad. But I was free. And that mattered more than being fun ever could.
I threw my phone across the bed and curled into myself, tugging the blanket higher. On the nightstand sat a used book I hadn't finished, a half-empty bottle of water, and a lighter for the candle I kept forgetting to blow out.
My life wasn't glamorous. It wasn't full of bright lights or expensive wine or the kind of love you read about in novels.
But tonight, I had a black rose.
And I didn't feel invisible.