The city squeezes you tight when you come inside from the rain. My curls drip onto the faded linoleum, my sketchbook safe under my arm, but my socks are a lost cause. It's lunchtime chaos at Hudson College—art kids in flannel, two guys loudly arguing about Kanye, the vegan table howling at something on TikTok.
Janelle and Tara are at our usual window seat, deep into their phones. Janelle looks up as I sit, her brow pinched.
"Where the hell did you disappear to?"
"Outside," I mutter, sliding my sketchbook under my tray before she can reach for it.
Tara doesn't even look up. "You're gonna catch pneumonia with that hair. You look like a sad mop."
I roll my eyes, poking at my fries. My stomach is twisted up in knots anyway.
Janelle sips her Diet Coke. "Let me guess. You were drawing. Or stalking some rando."
I shrug. "Just needed air."
Janelle leans across the table, dropping her voice. "You never actually talk to anyone. Ever. I swear, Cookie, you're gonna die single and haunted by your own weird comics."
Tara snorts. "Dibs on your pencil collection when you do."
Janelle's already back on her phone, tapping out a text. "Which is why—don't kill me—I told the guys from Jake's party to meet us tonight at that trashy dive on 12th. Group date. Just come. Please."
My stomach sinks.
"You didn't."
Janelle doesn't flinch. "I did. You have to at least try meeting normal people, Cookie. Not just weirdos on park benches with—what, a harmonica?"
"Guitar," I mumble.
Tara barks a laugh. "Whatever. You need to get laid by someone who's not a cartoon character."
I force a laugh, but it lands flat.
"There's more to life than hook-ups, you know."
Janelle sighs. "Says the girl who's never even kissed anyone sober."
I stab a fry, biting down too hard. "Maybe I don't want to date a finance major with an 'alpha male' complex."
Tara grins. "If you want a loser, we can find you one of those too."
I ignore them, glancing out the window. Rain's almost stopped. Out on the quad, the world is bright gray and full of possibility, even if no one else gets it.
Janelle leans back, eyes sharp. "Promise you'll come tonight. You owe me. You never show up for anything."
I nod, just to end the conversation.
But in my head, I'm still chasing the sound of that song—still hoping I'll hear it again, alone.
_____________________
The next day, New York is all noise—sirens ricocheting down 12th, somebody arguing with a traffic cop in three languages, the wind shoving the clouds so low you could almost touch them.
Hudson College is packed, everyone shoulder to shoulder, heads down, fighting through another Monday.
I walk with Janelle and Tara, but I might as well be invisible. They're arguing about something—boys, deadlines, who's picking up the tab at dinner tonight. I nod when it seems right, mumble answers when they look at me, but my mind is somewhere else.
I keep scanning faces, every crowd, every stoop, every musician on every corner. Looking for him.
Maybe he's just a daydream.
Maybe I made him up—the boy with the guitar, voice like rain, sadness curled around his shoulders like an old scarf.
But my sketchbook says otherwise.
So does the way my heart trips every time I pass the quad, or the little shiver that runs through me whenever I hear the faintest echo of a jazz chord from a passing car.
Janelle elbows me, breaking my trance.
"Earth to Cookie! Are you listening?"
I force a smile. "Sorry. Just tired."
Tara snorts. "She's always tired. She's nocturnal, like a squirrel with social anxiety."
Janelle grins, looping her arm through mine. "She's definitely not tired when she's drawing that sad, bony busker from the quad."
I roll my eyes, tucking a curl behind my ear. "It's just practice. You guys wouldn't get it."
She laughs. "You're right. I like my men real, not imaginary. And with jobs."
The three of us merge with a crowd pushing through the student center doors.
It smells like burnt coffee and old books, sweat and perfume and city grime.
I'm halfway to the art wing when I hear it.
A faint, familiar strum—a single chord, a breath, a pause that could split the world open.
My chest goes tight.
I turn, searching, hoping, knowing I'm being ridiculous.
But there he is.
Slouched on the bench by the food trucks, guitar balanced on his knee, head down, shoulders hunched, hair still a mess. Like the city plucked him straight out of my memory and put him here, just for me.
I let go of Janelle's arm, heart racing, feet already moving.
The crowd swallows me up—voices, footsteps, the clang of someone's skateboard—but I can still hear his music cutting through the noise.
For a second, the city belongs to me.
For a second, I'm not lost at all.
I elbow my way through the crowd, the world a blur of backpacks and umbrellas and someone yelling about free pizza on the quad.
But all I see is him.
He's halfway through a song I don't recognize, something slow and blue, the kind of tune that makes you ache for a memory you never had.
His eyes are fixed on his guitar, mouth barely moving, a furrow in his brow like he's working out a puzzle only he can solve.
I stop a few feet away, half-hidden by a pillar, heart pounding loud enough I swear he can hear it.
He doesn't notice me—doesn't notice anyone, really.
Most people walk by without a glance. One girl drops a handful of change in his case. A security guard on his phone mutters something about "loitering" and walks off.
I grip my sketchbook so tight my knuckles go white.
This is stupid, I think. You're being ridiculous.
But my feet don't move.
The last note hangs in the air, a ghost, before it dissolves into the city's noise.
He sets his guitar down, fingers flexing, and—just for a second—he looks up.
His eyes flicker over the crowd, blank and distant, then land on me.
I freeze.
He stares.
I feel like the city's gone silent.
For a heartbeat, it's just us.
I try to say something. Anything.
"Hey," I manage, voice almost swallowed by the traffic.
He blinks, glances away, then shrugs—like maybe he didn't hear me, or maybe he doesn't want to.
He starts packing up his guitar, quick and practiced, shoulders tight.
My throat dries up. I almost step forward, almost speak again. But the words die in my mouth.
He slings the guitar over his back, gives me one more blank, unreadable look, and disappears into the crowd—swallowed up by the city, just like that.
I stand there, the music echoing in my ears, wondering if I'll ever be brave enough to make him stay.
I storm across campus, dodging skateboarders and a guy hawking poetry zines in a neon bucket hat, barely noticing the drizzle starting again.
My sketchbook bangs against my thigh with every furious step.
"Unbelievable," I mutter. "Can't even acknowledge a hello? What, too sad to speak? Too busy pretending the world doesn't exist? Asshole."
A woman with a stroller glances at me, startled. I flip my hood up, muttering lower but not stopping.
"Maybe he just didn't hear you," I snap back at myself. "Or maybe you looked crazy, standing there like a wet raccoon with a notebook."
I reach the doors to my building, punch the elevator button, cursing the city, cursing myself for caring, cursing the boy for haunting every blank page in my life.
My phone buzzes. Mom.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but the guilt is faster. I answer.
"Hey, Mom."
She doesn't waste a second. "Cookie, you never answer on the first ring. Is something wrong? You sound out of breath."
"Just got home from class. Everything's fine."
A sigh. I picture her at the kitchen counter back in Jersey, dish towel over her shoulder, phone wedged under her chin, worrying herself into a headache.
"I should do this in person, but I have to say it. Your advisor emailed me. You're falling behind, Cookie. Your grades. Again."
I close my eyes, tipping my head back against the elevator wall. "I know."
"I know you don't want to hear it, but you have to take this seriously. Creative Writing is a privilege. Do you know how many kids would kill for your spot? You can't waste it drawing those childish cartoons. You're 21. It's time to focus."
I bite my lip, hard. "I am focused. I just...needed a break."
She doesn't hear it. She never does. "You can draw for fun, honey. But it's not a job. You need to think about your future. Maybe submit to the literary magazine this semester. Or talk to Professor Harris. She said she'd help you if you asked."
"I'll think about it."
"You always say that."
The elevator dings.
"I have to go, Mom. I'm late."
"Are you eating enough? You sound tired. Don't forget to make your bed."
"Love you too."
She hangs up.
I let my head thump against the wall, breath fogging the stainless steel, fighting the urge to scream.
Back in my tiny dorm room, I toss my bag on the bed, strip out of my rain-soaked clothes, and glare at the dress Janelle insisted I wear for the group date. It's blue, sparkly, and so not me—tight in the wrong places, itchy at the sleeves.
I pull it on anyway, fighting with the zipper, hair a wild halo of frustration.
I try to imagine myself as someone who wants this. Someone who fits in, who laughs at strangers' jokes, who doesn't dream in cartoons and jazz lyrics.
But all I see is a girl who's lost in the crowd.
And all I hear is that song, echoing in the back of my mind.
_______________________
The bar smells like bleach, beer, and old desperation. The bouncer barely looks at our IDs, waving us in while muttering about cover charges. Janelle's already halfway to the sticky booth in the corner, hair perfect, eyeliner razor sharp. Tara follows, loud and laughing, dragging me by the wrist.
It's louder than hell in here—sports on the TV, a jukebox that hasn't worked since the Obama administration, some guy at the bar yelling at a fantasy football app. The group date is waiting: three guys, all already halfway through a pitcher, hair too neat, eyes roaming the room with bored impatience.
Janelle grins, shoving me into the booth beside her. "Everyone, this is Cookie. Cookie, this is...uh, Derek, Will, and...what's your name again?"
The third guy grins, teeth too white. "Ryan."
"Right. Ryan. Cookie's an artist." Janelle stretches the word like a dare.
Derek leans in, slurring a little. "So, like, tattoos? Or do you do those weird big-eye paintings?"
Will's scrolling his phone. "My cousin does NFTs. You make any money off that stuff?"
Ryan sips his drink, eyeing my dress. "You look nervous. Don't worry, we don't bite. Unless you want us to."
I force a smile, wishing I could melt into the seat. Tara is already making small talk with Will about the Knicks. Janelle orders tequila shots for the table.
Janelle elbows me. "So, Cookie, tell the boys about that weird comic you're obsessed with."
I stare into my glass. "It's nothing. Just something I draw for myself."
Derek laughs. "She's shy. That's cute."
Ryan leans closer, his breath like stale gum. "You like shy girls, Derek?"
"Fuck off," I mutter, pushing past him to stand. "I need air."
Janelle grabs my arm. "Cookie, don't—"
But I'm already out of the booth, squeezing past a couple making out by the jukebox, stumbling out into the night.
The city is cooler now, quiet.
I pull off my shoes and stand on the curb, the music from inside muffled by the door, my heart thumping out a beat only I can hear.
I take a shaky breath, close my eyes, and wish for something—anything—real.
The night air in the city tastes like rain and cigarettes, leftover heat from the sidewalk rising up to meet the moon. I shove my heels into my purse, hugging my arms tight around myself, letting the neon and traffic lights wash over me.
I walk for blocks—past a noodle shop closing up for the night, a trio of skateboarders fighting gravity at the edge of the park, a yellow cab blaring Sinatra from rolled-down windows.
My feet are freezing and the bottom of my dress is probably ruined, but I don't care. At least out here, nobody's judging. Nobody's watching.
I pass a group of NYU kids in Mets caps, laughter echoing, and keep going. Each step puts more distance between me and the dive bar, between me and the version of myself my friends want.
At the corner of Bleecker and Sullivan, I hear it—a single, clear chord, then another. Not pop, not the usual city noise, but something raw and familiar.
My heart stutters.
A streetlamp flickers overhead, shining down on a figure sitting on a milk crate, guitar balanced on his knee, head bowed as he coaxes a song out of thin air.
It's him.
The boy from campus.
His hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled, his eyes hidden behind a shadow. He's singing something I can barely make out, but I know the voice—I'd know it anywhere.
"Let's get lost
Lost in each other's arms..."
He's quieter here, almost like he's singing for the city, or maybe just for himself. A few people walk by, one man tosses a quarter in the open guitar case, but nobody stops. Nobody but me.
I stand across the street, shoes dangling from my hand, heart in my throat, listening.
The city blurs around the edges—horns, laughter, a siren somewhere far off—but all I can hear is him, filling the night with longing.
I step closer, the music pulling me like a tide.
I cross the street, ignoring the chill biting at my toes, my shoes dangling from my fingers. I keep my eyes on him—hair wild, jacket too thin, face half-hidden in the orange haze of the streetlamp.
He lets the last note of "Let's Get Lost" fade into the city. His shoulders drop. For a second, he just sits, staring at the ground, looking tired enough to fall asleep right there.
I hesitate, heart stuttering, then take a few shaky steps closer.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual, failing.
He doesn't look up right away—just digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crushed pack of cigarettes. He flips the top open, counts what's left, and fishes one out with his teeth.
His hands are big, shaky. He's got a bandage on one knuckle, nailbeds dirty. I watch him flick a lighter—fail, try again, light flaring up. Still no glance in my direction.
Finally, as he exhales smoke, he flicks his eyes up at me.
They're sharp, shadowed, assessing. For a second, there's nothing—then a flicker of something like irritation.
"That was...beautiful," I blurt, immediately hating how desperate I sound.
He just shrugs, smoke curling from his mouth, gaze already moving past me, scanning the street.
"Th-th-thanks."
His voice is rough, the word broken up by a stutter he doesn't bother to hide.
He glances away, like I'm just more background noise.
I stand there, wanting to sink into the sidewalk, but I can't leave.
"You, uh...play around here a lot?"
He takes another drag, barely acknowledging me.
"S-s-sometimes."
He taps ash into the gutter, the barest hint of a smirk. "Y-y-you f-f-f-followin' me, or just l-l-lost?"
It's deadpan—dry as a joke, but I'm not sure it's meant to be funny.
I fumble, cheeks burning.
"No. I just—I heard you play yesterday. You were...good then too."
He glances at me again, more annoyed than pleased.
"C-c-cool. Th-th-thanks."
He looks away, flicks his cigarette into the gutter, then pulls the battered guitar into his lap and starts tuning a string. I almost apologize, but the words won't come.
After a pause, still not meeting my eyes, he mutters,
"Y-y-you got a n-n-n-name?"
I swallow, heart jumping.
"Cookie."
He nods once, stares at his guitar.
"'S f-f-fine."
He starts to play again—something softer, sadder—his stutter gone as soon as he starts to sing, the city slipping away with every note.
I stand there in the cold, holding my shoes, wondering if I'll ever matter enough for him to look at me twice.