The universe was playing a trick on me!
Just right after Georgia Ku's What Do I Do? started playing—not literally in the room, but on the frantic, internal jukebox of my anxiety—it's when I suddenly saw the single person I had already learned to forget. The one whose name was a ghost of my former self. Leo.
The irony is that the lyrics to the song explained me better than I could myself, and I almost laughed at the precision of the musical universe. Ooh, Georgia,
"Thanks for the songs
You told me that I should know
I can't sing along now
Now that I've let you go"
You sang this part for me. I couldn't sing along because I didn't need the frantic energy anymore. I had let that part of my life go, and now here it was, standing across the room in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, ready to demand a spotlight.
The Audacity of Black Tie
Tonight was the museum gala, Julian's annual fundraiser. It was supposed to be the triumphant debut of Brian and Julian: The Steady State. Instead, it immediately felt like a terrifying high-school reunion where my past self had shown up to publicly shame my current stability.
We had spent the previous two hours preparing. I, of course, had almost forgotten the tuxedo rental cutoff date, requiring a mild panic and a text from Julian that read, Tuxedo: Did we acquire the necessary garment, or shall I wear my archival dust jacket? (Yes/No.) But we got the garment.
Julian looked impossibly handsome. The black tie and crisp white shirt amplified his quiet authority. He carried himself with the genuine comfort of a man who knows he belongs exactly where he is. When he looked at me, his eyes reflected pride and certainty. He wasn't seeing a charming mess; he was seeing his partner.
I was trying to match that energy. I felt sharp in my own tuxedo, but beneath the expertly starched collar, my pulse was beating a chaotic rhythm. This environment—this grand, echoing hall full of people who spoke in soft, cultivated voices about endowments and acquisitions—felt like a pressure cooker designed to expose my inherent lack of polish.
Julian, however, was my anchor. He kept his hand either resting gently on the small of my back or interlocked with mine, a constant, physical reminder that we were a unit. When we ran into his Director, Julian introduced me not as "my plus-one" but as "Brian, my partner," the title delivered with the same careful, reverent weight he used when handling a priceless document.
"You're doing great," Julian murmured to me, leaning in as we paused near a display of Renaissance jewelry.
"I feel like a carefully cataloged exhibit that's about to spontaneously combust," I whispered back, my eyes darting around the room, still scanning for threats.
"You look like a treasure," Julian corrected, and the small, intimate moment of sincerity was enough to stabilize my breathing. "Just stay right here. Be Brian. You're the one I brought."
And then, I saw him.
Leo.
The man whose name I had ironically shared in my nth breakup, the ex who embodied the peak of my high-drama, intense, emotionally exhausting dating phase. Leo was everything Julian was not: sharp angles, loud confidence, and an air of calculated unavailability. His tuxedo looked less rented and more molded to his body. He was leaning against a column, laughing with a group of people, radiating that familiar, magnetic energy that had once completely overwhelmed me. He was the stadium rock of my past.
My blood ran cold. The internal music track—the Georgia Ku song about not being able to sing along to the memory of the past—was immediately replaced by a frantic, high-volume drum solo.
Julian followed my suddenly rigid gaze. "Who is that?" he asked, his voice low and utterly devoid of judgment. He wasn't threatened; he was simply cataloging a new piece of data.
"That's... an old piece of history," I managed, feeling the color drain from my face. "That's Leo. We were a thing. A messy, explosive, week-long thing that involved far too much shouting in public and competitive intellectualism."
Julian just squeezed my hand. "Ah. The drama," he observed, cataloging the genre. "Well, he certainly looks… maintained."
And then, Leo saw me. His smile, already wide for his crowd, widened further. He immediately disengaged from his group and began making a beeline across the ballroom, his gaze locked on mine.
"Brace for impact," I muttered to Julian. "He's coming over. He's going to ask me if I'm still 'chasing the high of emotional unavailability' or some other ridiculous, psychobabble garbage we used to exchange."
Julian simply shifted slightly, positioning himself half a step forward, a quiet, non-verbal shield. "Just be Brian, the one I know," he instructed gently. "I'll handle the archives."
Leo arrived, a whirlwind of expensive cologne and intense eye contact. He didn't even acknowledge Julian at first, focusing all his high-beam energy directly on me.
"Brian Bennett," Leo exclaimed, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the din of the room. "The prodigal son returns to civilization! I didn't realize you frequented these halls of high culture. You look... well, you look incredibly stable. Which is worrying."
The old Brian would have played the game. I would have launched into a sharp, witty retort about Leo's own questionable life choices or engaged in a rapid-fire assessment of who had "won" the breakup. I would have sought that conflict, that validation that our shared history was real.
But I had Julian.
"Hello, Leo," I replied, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "It's good to see you. You're as dramatic as ever."
Leo finally turned his attention to Julian, giving him a slow, appraising look—the kind of look Brian the Hunter had given countless profiles.
"And you must be..." Leo trailed off, challenging Julian to introduce himself.
Julian didn't flinch. He extended his hand, his posture perfect. "Julian Chen. I'm Brian's partner. I'm an archivist here."
Leo took his hand, holding the shake just a second too long. "An archivist. How... grounding. Brian was always drawn to the extreme ends of the spectrum. I was the explosion, I suppose. And you, Julian, you look like the gentle, quiet aftermath." He punctuated the statement with a condescending smile.
I felt the sudden, familiar urge to defend myself, to prove that Julian wasn't just "grounding," but was also vibrant and exciting. But Julian didn't need my defense. He met Leo's gaze with the same calm neutrality he used when assessing a fire-damaged parchment.
"I prefer the preservation of real value over manufactured spectacle," Julian replied smoothly, his tone conversational, but his meaning sharp. He wasn't being mean; he was simply stating his professional philosophy, which perfectly applied to Leo. "Spectacle is easily destroyed. Value is enduring."
The air around Leo seemed to deflate slightly. He had come here expecting a theatrical encounter, a chance to prove that Brian still carried the scars of their passionate conflict. Julian had just dismissed their entire history as "manufactured spectacle."
Leo recovered quickly. He turned back to me, adopting a tone of intimate concern. "So, you've gone entirely low-volume, Brian? No more late-night philosophical battles? No more chasing that feeling? I remember you always said, 'If it doesn't hurt, it's not deep.' I miss that intensity, Bri. It made you feel alive."
This was the core of my old anxiety, laid bare. Leo was offering me the very thing I used to crave: the high-octane emotional validation of a shared, painful past.
I looked at Leo: the perfect tuxedo, the manicured charm, the offer of delicious, familiar chaos. And then I looked at Julian: the steady hand still resting on my back, the calm eyes reflecting back only acceptance, the quiet refusal to engage in the game.
The internal music shifted one last time. It wasn't the frantic pop song of avoidance, and it wasn't the intense pop anthem of pain. It was the simple, beautiful ambient soundscape that Julian had introduced me to.
"You're right, Leo," I said, finally finding my center. "I did used to say that. I spent years confusing anxiety with excitement, and confusing drama with depth. I chased the feeling that hurts because it was the easiest way to prove I was alive."
I squeezed Julian's hand, anchoring myself to his stability.
"Julian taught me that the real, visceral feeling isn't found in pain, but in safety," I continued, speaking clearly, not just for Leo, but for the ghost of Brian the Hunter still lingering in the room. "The deepest intimacy isn't a battle to be conquered; it's a home to be kept. We don't need the fight to feel real. We just need to be present."
Leo smiled, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. He recognized that he had lost the leverage of shared history. "Well, I suppose that's... mature of you. Enjoy the quiet life, Brian. Some of us still prefer the soundtrack to be a little louder."
"I think I finally just learned the lyrics to my own song," I responded simply. "It's a much better melody."
Leo gave Julian one last, dismissive nod. "Julian." Then, without another word, he melted back into the crowd, going back to the spectacle and the manufactured excitement.
The moment Leo was gone, my legs felt weak. I hadn't realized how much energy that two-minute interaction had cost me. I turned to Julian, my relief so overwhelming it felt like I might start weeping into his pristine shirtfront.
"That was—"
"A perfectly filed piece of history," Julian finished for me, gently tucking a stray curl behind my ear. "A handsome man, Brian. But entirely lacking in enduring value. He smells like a challenge."
"And you smell like a solution," I whispered, leaning into him.
Julian guided us away from the main thoroughfare and into a small, velvet-draped side chamber dedicated to 18th-century portraiture. He pulled me close, resting his forehead against mine.
"You handled that with incredible grace," he said. "You didn't perform, you didn't fight, and you didn't run. You simply stated your truth. That, Brian, is true strength. That is the thrive."
"I was terrified," I admitted. "I was waiting for you to see the chaos and decide you needed someone less... high-maintenance."
"I saw the chaos," Julian confirmed, pulling back slightly to look at my face. "And I saw the exhaustion beneath it. I chose the real person, the one who is capable of honesty and stillness. I'm an archivist; I have patience for the messy details, provided the underlying document is valuable. And you are priceless."
We stayed there for a long time, the quiet elegance of the portrait room offering a sanctuary from the gala's polished noise. In the distance, I could hear the faint, orchestral strains of the society band, but it was Julian's voice—calm, precise, and utterly accepting—that was the only music that mattered.
That night, we didn't go home immediately. We stayed until the end, walking through the museum hand-in-hand. I realized that the greatest drama wasn't the appearance of an old ex or the fear of a breakup; the greatest drama was the quiet, terrifying choice to choose a stable, gentle love over the familiar, chaotic intensity.
We didn't need to be hit in the face to feel real. We just needed to stand still, safe, and together. That night, Brian the Hunter was finally, officially, and ceremoniously retired, and Brian the Partner finally got to dance in the quiet, beautiful rhythm of his own making.