#vesper.whisper

you buy the plane ticket less than 15 minutes after you decide you can't stay home anymore. open skyscanner and press that 'explore everywhere' button you used to scoff at. the cheapest one way ticket for tomorrow is going to Madrid. the confirmation email (timestamped as opened at 4:27 am) informs you that you can only bring one carry on and one personal item, and warns you that the gate closes 30 minutes before departure. which is in 16 hours, give or take.

you feel vaguely like the main character of a b-grade spy flick that has to leave after their identity has been exposed, with the way you shove all clothes you deem summery enough into a duffel bag. which is ridiculous, because those characters are running from something, and you are not.

you put your headphones on before you even finish packing. don’t take them off again until the security line.

on the way to the airport, you book a hostel that has good reviews. hesitantly, you settle on three days. that should be enough time to get your head right. maybe even make some memories you can post about later, just to prove you did something. you’ll be back way before your medical leave is up. maybe that will be enough to smooth things over. you could say it was clarity, you could say it was rest. say you’re fine now. better.

the plane lands at Madrid-Barajas airport just before dawn. the sky is still dark and the terminal is cold and quiet. the glittering lights of the city from above had been pretty. like stars fell onto streets and stayed there.

you take the airport bus to the center and walk to your hostel just as the sun is beginning to rise. it doesn’t feel like a movie. it doesn’t feel like real life either. it’s like you stepped sideways into someone else’s dream. your headphones are still on, powered off, no music playing. just enough to dull the edges of the world. everything is tinted the soft pink of sunrise, but none of it sinks in. you feel like you’re watching yourself from a distance, like you packed 12 tops but forgot your body.

you check in. you shower. you sit on the edge of the bed for a long time with damp hair that you didn't have the patience to dry, staring at the same tile on the floor until the outline of it burns into your vision.

you spend the next three days walking aimlessly. wandering through alleys and sun-drenched plazas. you check off a few major tourist attractions just to say you did, but you’re barely present for them. the crowds are too much. too noisy, too sweaty, too joyful in a way that feels unbearable. it makes you form a causeless lump in your throat.

you keep your headphones on the whole time, music turned up too high, like maybe it can drown out the cheerfulness you can’t stand.

you order food by pointing at menus and nodding. you try to read the book you brought from home. you bought it last year but there was neber enough time after work. nobody calls your phone.

you don’t remember the last time you spoke out loud.

on your last morning, you walk up to the reception desk, manned by a girl with bright purple hair and so many piercings. she looks so alive it makes your chest ache. she smiles warmly at you, as you stammer out that you'd like to, maybe, if it's possible, please, to, well, extend your stay? for a couple days, or maybe even one, at least, please?, your voice sounds foreign to you. you try to smile. maybe that will help.

she clicks something on the computer and tuts unhappily and tells you they’re fully booked. calls you sweetheart, and that does make it easier to bear.

you nod. you thank her.

you can’t go back. not yet.

nothing’s changed. you’re still in the middle of the same blurry crisis you left behind. your life plan doesn’t exist anymore. even if you went back now, it wouldn’t fix anything. it wouldn't make you functional. it wouldn’t make you want to get out of bed in the morning.

you check flights anyway.

there are no tickets to your city that day. in fact, the closest one is a two weeks from that day. you have a very unflattering panic attack about this on the bench of a tiny park.

the whole city feels like it’s pressing in on you. too many corners. too many people. everything echoes. you can't stay here, you can't, you need to get away.

the train station is humming with announcements and the scuff of suitcase wheels on tile. you find one of those touchscreen ticket machines and stand in front of it, uselessly. everything’s in spanish. you know there has to be a button to change the language. you give up halfway through and walk over to the help desk, manned by a tired-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes and a red pen behind one ear. she glances up as you're tugging you headphones off. she doesn’t smile.

in fractured sentences you explain that you need to get somewhere quiet, peaceful, tranquilo, por favor. she's staring at you with a mix of pity and apprehension. god, you must look like a mess. pity must win out, since she types something on her computer.

she prints your ticket on that weird thin paper train tickets always seem to be printed on, and tells you it’s leaving in twenty minutes. she warns you to be quick. you thank her, or try to, but it comes out thick and slurred, like your mouth doesn’t remember how.

your headphones go back on as soon as you step away from the desk.

the name of the town means nothing to you. it sounds soft, vowel-heavy. unfamiliar.

the platform is confusing, and your head is still a little too full of static, but you manage to make it onto the train seconds before the doors beep shut. you don’t even realize it’s the wrong carriage until you’re halfway down the aisle, bumping along with your bag, and realize this section is suspiciously plush. wider seats, big headrests and even the air smells more expensive.

you pause when you see him.

just one guy, sitting by the window. tall, lean. magenta hair that looks almost red in the filtered train light. sharp lines and sharper posture, like he doesn’t know how to slouch. tangled wired earphones. duffel bag at his feet. his legs are crossed too neatly, like he's not trying to be comfortable, just still. his eyes (what you catch of them in profile) are narrow and pale, maybe blue, maybe green. edged with lashes so long they almost look fake. he doesn’t look at you, not even when you’re clearly hovering in his peripheral vision, just staring.

you’re not sure why he catches your attention. maybe it’s the way he’s so still. there's all this noise and clamor all around, people settling it, luggage being shoved on overhead racks, but he seems detached from it all.

you make your way to your actual seat in standard class, where the upholstery smells like dust and someone’s forgotten lunch, and the guy next to you is having a very loud conversation on speakerphone. you turn on your music and up the volume until it's so loud it kind of hurts.

the next few hours blur out. you don’t eat, or read, or do anything you thought you would. just sit there, half alive, trying to calculate the exact moment your life plan failed you.

you only really come back into yourself when the train slows down and a crackly announcement in spanish tells you this is the last stop on this journey. you climb out of the carriage withthose few, who also made it to the final destination.

the scenery is all squat buildings, distant mountains, and the kind of light that makes everything look like a painting, warm and unsteady.

and there he is again.

the guy from first class. standing on the platform, same bag, same earphones now looped around his neck. he’s tall. his expression is unreadable, which feels like something of a skill. for a second, your eyes meet, and he doesn’t look away.

neither do you.

but nothing happens.

no nod. no acknowledgement. no tiny smile to say “hey, what a coincidence.” he just turns and walks toward the transfer platform.

you follow a few minutes later, stomach buzzing with something you can’t name. you turn off the music, almost shocked by the quiet.

the next train is tiny, and way older than the one before. with plastic seats and open vents and the scent of salt somewhere on the breeze. you sit down on the opposite end from him, like you’re both pretending you haven’t noticed each other. it’s stupid. you both obviously have.

the train winds through countryside, through glimpses of glittering sea, over hills that feel soft and slow, and you catch yourself watching him when he’s not looking. he doesn’t look like someone who’d be headed to the kind of nowhere you asked for. he looks expensive. polished. maybe he's visiting some distant family.

you get off at the final stop, a platform made of cracked tile and rusted railings. the station itself is barely more than a whitewashed shack. it’s quiet. you pull your headphones around your neck. sea breeze tugging at your shirt. cicadas singing like they’re the only living things in the world.

you’re not sure what to do. it feels faintly like you were dropped off in the middle of some dream world, except you did this to yourself. you shuffle toward what looks like an information booth and hope there’s someone inside.

there is. an old man with sunburned skin and a generous mustache is manning it, and he greets you in rapid spanish. you try to explain. you need somewhere to stay, making gestures of sleeping, por favor, solo uno o dos días, and maybe he gets the gist, because he frowns thoughtfully and says something back, but you only catch half the words. he repeats it. slower. but your brain is melting and your heart’s pounding like you’re back on that park bench again.

you’re about to thank him and pretend you understood, when a quiet voice cuts in.

“there’s just one place,” it says. “a bed and breakfast. ten, maybe fifteen minutes from here.”

you turn. he’s close enough now that you can really see him. flawless skin, the kind you thought only existed in advertisements. eyes that look cool even in the sun. the faintest crease between his brows, like the act of talking is mildly inconvenient. he adds, “i’m heading there. if you want, we can go together.”

his voice is low, but not unfriendly. like he doesn’t care either way, but he saw you struggling and decided to help, just a little.

you nod. too quickly. try to say something casual like “sure, thanks,” but it comes out rough again. he doesn’t seem to mind.

he just starts walking, and you follow.

you don’t know his name. you don’t know where exactly you are. the sun is starting to set, casting everything in gold.

the sea is still, and so is the town. it moves leisurely, which makes you nervous for some reason you don't want to investigate.

you try walking toward the beach, but the narrow streets keep turning in on themselves. sunlight reflects off white walls, bounces too brightly off windows. you get turned around twice. run into a dead end that smells like rosemary and old stone. eventually you find a small square. a few stalls set up under faded umbrellas.

a woman about your mother’s age sells fruit off the back of her truck. you buy a plum. eat it too fast, standing under the shadow of a fig tree. the juice stains your sleeve. you try not to care. you try not to think.

you keep heading downhill, which eventually brings you to the beach. it’s not long, flanked on one end by an open field, and on the other, an enormous cliff face. the sand is coarse. dark. volcanic, maybe. hot even through your shoes.

it’s crowded.

families. kids. couples lying on towels. people drinking from plastic cups. laughing. running toward the water. music spills out from a few eateries behind the umbrellas. a bluetooth speaker somewhere is playing something tinny and familiar.

you want to turn around.

the desire to drown it out, drown it all out is immense, but you did walk all the way over there to listen to the sea, so you brave the taunting sounds of their happiness.

you try to concentrate on the book and the sound of the waves hitting the shore. when none of the words connect into a comprehensible picture, you take out your phone. try to write something in your notes app, then delete it all. you count the cracks in the sidewalk. you wonder if you’ll ever finish your thesis. if anyone back home is thinking of you.

you try to remember where you were this time last month. what you were doing. you were sitting at your desk, twenty tabs open. three different deadlines. rereading your own abstract until it stopped making sense. entering figures into your lead researcher’s spreadsheet, feeling nothing but tired hate.

the knowledge that on the other side of the building there was someone better than you working on the project you were supposed to be on. the one you planned for. the one you told everyone you were going to get.

you’d built your whole year around it. had a timeline. milestones. drafts. conference submissions. textbook readings already annotated. you were always early. always precise.

the institute gave the position to someone else. you had to take up the backup offer. weren't you supposed to be the best?

you couldn't even look at yourself. you started snapping at your friends, and the guilt at heavy in your stomach. they said they understood that you were going through a hard time. well. they didn't reallty understand your happiness at succeeding, they couldn't possibly understand the pain of failure. you could feel them pulling away.

the subject of your studies was not interesting if you weren't the best at it. without prestige, without success, what was left?

the worst part was probably the fact that you were cognizant of it all getting worse and worse. you saw it happening. you were still trying. still pushing. until that morning in the lab when your chest locked up and your vision went white and the floor felt like it split under you. you curled up in the back corner, shaking. people saw. they all saw.

your lead told you to go home. made you book a mental health check.

and the therapist didn't want to listen to all your assurances that you were fine, that you couldn't afford to miss anything, that you were already off. that things were just stacked weirdly this week. she didn’t argue. she just filled out a form. handed it to you. mandatory two-week medical leave.

you read it in the stairwell. your name, the date, the code for burnout. it was real. it had a number.

you booked a flight to madrid that night.

you pretend it’s fine. that this is healing. that leaving was brave, not desperate.

you stay on the beach until the sky has folded into itself. the last of the light curling around the edges of the clouds like something unfinished. it's too dark to keep reading. you hold your book a while longer anyway, letting your eyes pretend. the wind had picked up and your headphones had died. maybe that was the only reason you left.

the small place by the shore is half-empty. the air smells like sea, and oil, and grill smoke. a group of effortlessly stylish italian grandmas drink red wine around a big table, laughing in bursts. there's a family in the corner with a young boy half-asleep in his chair, and a few quiet couples scattered around.

there is an empty table in the corner. you sit with your back to the wall. a girl with sunburnt nose brings you a menu. its that laminated kind, worn and almost matte from use. you order a soda for now.

you’re sipping it slowly, trying to piece together what the dishes are using your very surface-level spanish, deciding on something with chicken (it's pollo, right?) when the door opens.

you look up without thinking.

he walks in. same dark shirt, hair a little messier now, wind-tossed. he doesn’t notice you at first.

“sae!”

you say it too loud. too fast. and immediately regret it.

a few people glance over. he glares, not at you, but at the attention.

he looks over at you, expression smoothing. maybe it's recognition, or resignation, you can't tell, because he doesn't smile, nor does he frown. just walks over to your table and sits across from you.

"hey," you say, quieter now. "sorry. i just-"

"it's fine."

you slide the menu across the table. "here. i think there’s only one waitress, and i already know what i want."

he hums and takes it, glancing down briefly before setting it aside again. his eyes are a sharp, quiet teal, clearer now under the low amber lights. his lashes are thick, darker than his hair.

you realize you’ve been staring.

"how come it’s so loud in the day," you ask, trying to fill the space between you, "but then it empties like this?"

he leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate. "most people don’t live here," he says. "they come from the next towns over. trains, cars, busloads of them. then they vanish."

you nod, fingers toying with the condensation on your glass. you flag down the waitress.

you both order, you by pointing at the menu, him, in fluent spanish. she blushes something fierce, it's visible even through her tan.

when she leaves, you're surprised that he asks you "so you haven't been here before?"

“ah, no,” you say. “it's a long story.” one you're not really keen on voicing out loud.

“i see.”

you don't ask why he was here. the silence isn’t uncomfortable. not quite. not yet.

you feel like you're grasping at straws, trying to find something to talk about, feeling responsible, since you're the one who made him sit with you.

"so," you start. he looks at you then, really looks. it catches you off guard. his eyes are steady and vivid. you clear your throat and push forward. "what were you doing all day? i didn’t see you on the beach. and it feels like that’s the only thing to do here?"

there’s a flicker in his expression, and he tilts his head a little, like he’s assessing the question, not for meaning, but for intention. you can’t tell if he’s offended or just thinking. the pause stretches long enough that you almost take it back.

but then he says, “there’s a hiking trail. in the other direction from the bed and breakfast. i went for a run.” a beat. “and i was on the beach. there’s another one here, it's quieter. past the big rock.”

“oh.” you nod, trying not to sound surprised. “that sounds nice.”

he hums. that’s all. just a low sound of agreement, or maybe dismissal. you’re not sure.

you can feel him looking at you, something analysing in his gaze, and you can't tell if it's because you did something wrong or right.

he doesn’t offer anything else. and you’re about to fill the silence with something clumsy - do you like hiking? do you always run when you're on vacation? - when the waitress arrives with your food.

you didn’t realize how hungry you were until the plates hit the table, fragrant and steaming. the heat of the sun had dulled your appetite, but now it returns with force. you dig in gratefully.

he doesn’t say much while eating. but he watches. not in a rude way, just curious. quiet. he eats slower than you. doesn't look at his phone. doesn't rush.

“how is it?” he asks eventually, once you’ve cleaned half your plate.

“it’s okay,” you say, then add, “i should’ve gotten the fish, probably. it’s fresh, right? they catch it here?”

he nods. “probably.”

you glance at his plate. “you didn’t get it either.”

“i don’t always like fish here.”

"is something wrong with it?" you hope not, since you were already planning to order it next time. but if he says he got a food poisoning or something you'll have to cancel that plan.

"what? no, i just prefer kelp out of seafood, but they dont have that in Spain, only back home. in Japan."

you hum. "ah, i see."

you don’t say anything for a moment, but you’re watching him, interested now. not in the food, but in the way he said it. there was no complaint in his voice, just a quiet kind of resignation. like he misses home but won’t admit it directly.

you want to ask what it tastes like. why is it better than fresh caught game. who cooks for him. but it feels too much, too soon. instead you just chew slower, listen to the clink of dishes in the back.

there’s something careful about the way he keeps conversation small, it's not closed off, just narrowed. like he’s figured out how to exist without taking up unnecessary space. and you… you’re the opposite. always too aware of how you’re perceived, always trying to match some expected shape.

when the check comes, you reach for your bag automatically, but he already has his card out.

“you don’t have to,” you say.

he shakes his head once, dismissive. “it’s fine.”

“i can get mine.”

he gives you a look that makes you stop. not unkind. not sharp. just firm, like he’s already made up his mind.

you settle back. murmur a quiet thanks and promise to treat him next time. he nods like it doesn'tmean anything. there’s a strange comfort in someone taking over, just for a moment. not out of affection. not even friendship. just… instinct. like he’s done this before.

on the walk back, he moves slower than yesterday. his long steps unhurried, like he’s letting the evening stretch itself out. the town is velvet soft and dark now, few lit windows lighting your way.

he glances at you, once. barely a turn of the head. just enough to check you’re still beside him.

you are.

he walks you back in near-silence, but takes a sharper left through a narrow alley.

“this way’s faster,” he says. “you don’t have to go around the whole hill. next time, just cut through that alley with the green fence. you’ll come out right by this pier.”

“good to know.” you commit it to memory.

it’s true. you see your bnb gate before you expect to.

it’s nice, you think, to be beside someone who doesn’t know you, your history, your patterns of collapse. a small voice in your head wonders did he actually want to sit with you, or was he just being polite?

bachira meguru

oliver aiku

michael kaiser

shidou ryusei

and this one which is applicable to so many of bllk men i can not even begin to list them