thewaysomesciencefictiondoes505

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Arctic Monkeys at 3Arena, Dublin, 19/10/2023. (Photos by astridcmacias)

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Kalopsia / short story / part 2

This is the continuation of the story I worte a long time ago. As of now, I don't have anything else written... so tell me if you'd like to know what happens next!

read part 1 here

Part 2

It was only the beginning. That conversation happened nearly two weeks ago, but his voice still lingered in the back of my mind like a song you’ve fallen in love with, a melody you can’t get enough of. Falling in love after one conversation is silly, a thought I can enjoy for a moment but a reality I can’t believe in. There was an understanding between us. That I can’t deny. But calling it any other feeling seems impossible, or even desperate.

I was certain we would meet again, but his week-long absence discouraged me. I returned to that pub three times after our first encounter, sat at the same table, and waited. I found myself staring at the entrance, hoping to see his smug face again as he closed the door behind him, but he didn’t appear the first two nights. The quietness of that place can be overwhelming, like you’re meant to feel the silence go through you, filling your lungs with loneliness. I don’t know why it affected me so much. I could convince myself that there was no reason to return, but I would be lying. Even if I never saw him again, that night still changed how I interpreted my doubts. Even if I don’t have the answers to all of my questions, there is still some hope that I will find them. I’m still discovering what I want to do with my life, and I will eventually get my answers. I went back one last time, holding onto a small flicker of hope that I would see him. I’m glad I held on to that thought.

I sat down at the same table, this time not facing the entrance. I figured that if he didn’t show up, the least I could do to protect my feelings was avoid seeing a closed door. I was a regular customer now, so it didn’t take long for a glass of whiskey to be placed in front of me. Before I could consider tasting it, a sudden nervousness took over me, like my heart was sensing something was about to happen. 

Shortly after, the low tone I desperately wanted to hear confirmed my heart’s suspicions.

“I knew we’d meet again.”

Of course, we would. Finally, I heard the velvet voice that haunted me for a week. I looked back at him, realizing we were standing a few footsteps away from each other. The distance was just enough to allow me to see him and convince myself he wasn’t a figment of my imagination. 

Black shirt, slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans, and leather boots. He still had some strands of hair falling over his eyes, and that smirk never left his face. He was holding sunglasses in his left hand. Aviators. I wanted to memorize every detail, in case he disappeared for another week.

However, I wasn’t the only one mesmerized. He also took his time to observe me, little by little, eyes full of longing. I couldn’t speak yet, and I believe he couldn’t either. Those eyes were searching, like I was the key to an answer. The pub was quiet, but our thoughts were loud. Much louder than before. 

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

I let the quietness create anticipation but didn’t reply with what he wanted to hear. 

“You might not like the answer...” 

I wanted to seem like I wasn’t interested, despite knowing full well he could see through me. Honestly, I just wanted to see what he would do.

He took a step forward, making sure I wouldn’t look away. 

“You know…” he said, smiling, “You’re a very bad liar.”

He didn’t need to hear my real answer. The instant smile on my face was the only confirmation he needed. The game we played was dangerous, but I missed every second of it. I didn’t even notice the barman had already prepared his whiskey and was patiently waiting to place the drink on the table. The sound of the glass hitting the wooden table signaled the end of our staring contest, at least for that moment. I looked back at my drink, eager to see him sit in front of me. 

But before he could grant me that wish, he offered a different kind of gift, one he knew would linger in the back of my mind forever.

“I missed you too, dearly.” He said.

He laid the sunglasses on the table, and sat down. As simple as that, he had managed to make me stop thinking clearly. 

I had decided to copy his demeanor, to try to come up with the same replies that leave much to interpretation, only to have a glimmer of hope that I would be a constant presence in his mind after this second encounter. Why did I decide to become memorable to him? I’m not entirely sure. Maybe I just wanted to find balance, to haunt his dreams the same way he has been haunting mine. There was some truth to his comment about the consequences of staring for too long. It’s too many details for our subconscious to ignore. 

The knowledge that he missed me is enough to make me fall asleep with a smile, but I want to mirror the effect he has on me. 

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.” Those words came out quickly, like a thought afraid of losing its hiding place. I took a sip of my drink to calm my nerves. 

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he said, “My schedule changed this week, so I can’t come here as often as I wished.” 

“Work schedule? What do you do?”

“I work for a music magazine, I write articles, interviews, and so on”

“You have a far more interesting job than me”

“Do I? What is it?”

“Florist’s, part-time, I basically spend my days making flower arrangements”

He shifted his attention from my eyes to the glass in his hands, a wide smile catching my full attention. 

“Of all the possibilities, I didn’t imagine you surrounded by roses”

“Were you curious?” I laughed, “What were the other possibilities?”

“A café owner or a teacher, maybe?”

“I don’t have the money to open a café or the patience to deal with kids, so…” 

Our laughter echoed in the pub, no doubt interrupting the conversations of the other customers. I noticed the barman smiling at us as he poured someone else’s drink. 

He was lost in thought, staring at the glass and playing with an idea, giving me the opportunity to study his reflection. There were some wrinkles next to his eyes, caused by the smile illuminating his expression, a feeling of happiness that I hadn’t seen in him before. Some hair fell in front of his eyes, which he gently pushed behind his ear.

My voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“To be fair,” I said, “I did allow my thoughts to wander a bit… I also got curious”

As our eyes met again, the soft light coming from the lamp made his eye color appear hazel, filled with the warmth of the sunset.

The eyebrow raise served as an invitation to elaborate more.

 “I imagined you sitting by a desk, late at night, writing…,” I said, avoiding his eyes, “So, I wasn’t that far from the truth”

He was proud of my deduction, no doubt, yet he was curious about how our last encounter made me reach that conclusion. It didn’t take long for curiosity to take over.

“What made you think I was a writer?” he asked.

“I don’t know… I guess you just look like you spend most of your time inside your head, with a constant monologue,” I answered, “like you’re always looking for the right word”

He tilted his head, eyes still searching for a detail he might’ve missed. I found myself thinking about what his name may be, but that thought didn’t occupy my mind for long, as that velvet tone reappeared accompanied by a smirk.

“I wonder how many times I crossed your mind this week?” he asked, blunt yet playful.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at that comment. I would never admit it.

“Well, I could ask you the same thing?” I told him, exaggerating a shocked expression just to get a laugh from him.

“And we would both avoid answering truthfully,” he said calmly, pronouncing each word carefully.

“But in a vague reply we would still decipher the truth,” I added.

“Exactly”

“That’s how we communicate, I’ve realized”

“Sometimes we don’t even need words.”

A quiet atmosphere settled in for a couple of minutes, a silence that both of us were comfortable with. I only disrupted the moment to ask an important question.

“Before you disappear again, I need to know something…,” I waited, examining his reaction, “What’s your name?”

The smug face that greeted me earlier returned. He took out a small black notebook from his pocket, flicking through the first pages filled with notes, drawings, and scribbles in pen, until he finally reached an empty page. He pondered, for a second, considering how he should verbalize his answer, but eventually settled with a simple remark.

 “If you give me your phone number, I’ll tell you.”

I took his notebook from his hands, wrote down my number, and added my name at the end.

As I turned the notebook around, he read it out loud.

“Sophie.”

He said my name in the most beautiful and enticing tone, tasting every letter carefully. With his voice replaying in my mind, a name I’ve heard my entire life gained a new life. I just wanted to hear him say it again, feeling the sound touch my lips.

His eyes slowly looked up at me, and then down at my lips, just long enough for me to notice. I couldn’t look away, not after this.

“Do you remember what I told you, about staring for too long?” he asked, aware that I hadn’t forgotten one single detail of our conversations.

“That you might appear in my dreams?” I smirked, “Oh, I’m counting on it…” 

We shared a smile for a moment but quickly felt distressed as his hand reached for the wallet. He was getting ready to pay for the drinks, but he hadn’t told me his name. I couldn’t let him leave yet, not without that knowledge.

“Wait–” Without thinking, I grabbed his hands and said, defeated, “I told you my name, but you didn’t tell me yours…”

I immediately regretted it. I don’t know how I looked to him, or to anyone that could've been eavesdropping, but the need to know was stronger than the shame. I most likely sounded desperate, and that is something I thought I’d never recover from.

Despite it all, he didn’t allow me to feel that way for long. 

“Look at me,” he said, smiling as his hands gently held mine, “Wait for my message, you’ll know.”

He smiled, sincerely, and I couldn’t do anything else but mirror his emotions. I followed his steps as he walked to the door, seeing him wave goodbye, knowing it would take another week to see him again. When I was about to finish my drink, I saw that he had left his aviators on the table, most likely on purpose, as proof that we would meet again. That was his way of lighting a spark. I guess this is how our conversations go, with excitement, understanding, and longing.

Not long after I safely put the sunglasses in my bag, I got the promised text message. It simply said: 

“Don’t forget to bring the sunglasses next time. Love, Alex”

Alex. 

It has been a long time since I felt this way. I left the pub relieved and happier than ever. As I gazed at the sign saying Kalopsia, I couldn’t help but wonder if people do just stumble into it, or if this place looks for you. Either way, I’ll see John again, and change is certainly coming.

--------

So, what do you think? Should I continue this story!

Thank you for reading,

kate <3

[thewaysomesciencefictiondoes505]

arctic monkeys at studio brussel, 2022.

📷 — illias teirlinck.

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Memories from my show in Dublin 2023 🎶

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I love this interview so much

The Last Shadow Puppets for Yahoo Music

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Listening to tbhc and falling in love with it all over again... what a masterpiece 🎶

"Life became a spectator sport / I launch my fragrance called integrity/ I sell the fact that I can't be bought"

- Batphone

Amazing lyrics, brilliant concept... a masterpiece of an album 🎶

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arctic monkeys in 2011.

📷 — lauren debache.

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Currently missing him

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Kalopsia - part 1 / short story

I wrote this story nearly two years ago, but I didn't know where to post it. I figured some arctic monkeys fans might enjoy it. I wrote it with the song nº1 party anthem in mind. Please tell me if you like it, and if I should continue this story!

___________________________________________________________

Kalopsia, part 1

What is the secret to finding your passion? College taught me that some people discover their raison d’être without much deliberation. Those lucky ones share the same glint in their eyes, catching glimpses of their future at the turn of a page. This gentle self-reflection remains an incomprehensible concept to me, and their apparent success is a constant reminder of the monotony I live in. Asking questions became predictable, followed always by silence. I’m haunted by a plethora of unpursued passions. The answers seem to exist near me, in every footstep from my bed to the kitchen, waiting for me to notice. If I could only stretch my arm a little more, perhaps I would be able to faintly touch that confident explanation. But the night is starting to greet us earlier, and no matter how tightly I grasp the memories of summer, the echoes of those voices aren’t enough to keep me warm. The year is coming to an end, and nothing has changed. What appears to be obvious to others remains a mystery to me. Staring at the night sky gives comfort to some people, not because of the beauty intrinsic to it, but because of the contradiction it conveys. It’s the known and unknown coexisting, the nothingness shaking hands with significance. Your doubts dissolve into the void, painting the late hours of dawn like a dream. 

This feeling arose stronger than before as a consequence of my decision to spend the evening in a different place. The tedium persuaded me to change the scenery. A lonely pub doesn’t quite sound like the greatest setting for self-reflection, but the unlikelihood of being seen there made it the perfect location. It also allowed my thoughts to wander, instead of focusing on my current overwhelming uncertainty, hindering my chances of change. 

I wish I could bring home that atmosphere, or at least melt into it and become one with the air. 

It’s quite hidden, barely visible during the day, let alone at night. The passersby could easily fail to notice the entrance. The door itself is plain and uninteresting, only displaying a sign with the word ‘kalopsia’ without any other information. It doesn’t have bright, flashy lights pointing at the door, asking you to come in. The color of the letters faded, leaving only a touch of what once was red and gold. The exterior blends in with the city, old and outdated. When night arrives, the pub succeeds in disappearing completely. 

I saw that sign for the first time on my way to work some weeks ago. I took an alternative route, hoping to listen to more people living their lives, walking their dogs, spilling coffee, bumping into each other by accident, or criticizing a badly parked car. Kalopsia is the delusion of things appearing more beautiful than they are. The word itself made me intrigued. After thinking about the pub for weeks, I researched it online. The website didn’t show any pictures of the interior, only the menu, as well as the address. I admit there was a feeling of anticipation, like a strange enthusiasm for the unknown. The mysterious nature of the pub was impossible to deny, and that only made me more interested in it. The unpredictable atmosphere drew me in, but the need to forget my reality was the principal factor for my decision. A few people were walking directly toward the entrance, but their footsteps sounded confident. Their shoes hit the ground with certainty, each step filled with purpose, echoing and signaling their arrival. Mine were more cautious, afraid of feeling out of place.

The door opened softly. There were mirrors on every wall and golden lamps on every round table. It was still fairly empty and quiet, or at least it appeared that way. The reflections on the mirrors made the pub look bigger than it truly was. The dark wooden tables and golden decorations made it look like an elegant and sophisticated place, a huge contrast with the view from the outside. The few customers inside were focused, and no one batted an eye as I closed the door and walked nervously to the furthest table I saw. It was obvious that the regular customers would simply aim for a specific table, and despite no words being exchanged, a drink would be put in their hands. The lamps didn’t offer much light, illuminating only the drinks in front of them. Not even a minute had passed when a tall man approached me with the question I hadn’t thought about all evening. It’s rare to visit such places, and the knowledge of drinks was nonexistent. I muttered what came to mind: whiskey. The glass landed in my hands before I could change my mind. The shadows hide my face. The glass in my hands looks more alive than I do. I swirled the whiskey and listened to the ice cubes hitting the glass. All I have is a temporary job and an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. Instead of focusing on changing it, I'm at an unknown pub during the evening without a plan. The endless questions decided to walk into my mind uninvited, an annoying “guest” that doesn't quite understand when it’s time to go. I was unaware of how tightly my fingers were grasping the glass until a door cracking open shifted my attention entirely. 

He felt like a ghost hidden inside the walls, waiting for the perfect moment to make his appearance. An intimidating demeanor that doesn’t quite fit with the mood. A juxtaposition. Yet, he waltzed in unnoticed by the others. Light painted his movements as he walked across the wooden floor, sunglasses dangling in his hand with each step. He was wearing black denim jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and a slim-fitted leather jacket. Every detail of his clashed with the atmosphere of this place. Nevertheless, his small mannerisms were, somehow, captivating. Unbothered. Calm. I could hear someone hurriedly making a drink, so his presence must be usual. 

The glass slipped from my fingers, hitting the table with a loud thud. I hastily tried to find a napkin to clean up the spilled whiskey. His steps sounded closer, each step counting the seconds it took me to pretend I wasn’t embarrassed. As he walked past me, a slight wind hit my face, intoxicating me with his presence. The glass never touched my lips, and the embarrassment didn’t let me ask for another drink. I slumped back onto my chair, doubtful of my decision to visit this place, but at the same time intrigued by the man who had lazily sat near me. 

We were separated only by an empty table, allowing us to face each other. As much as I hated to admit it, I was mesmerized by his presence. His eyes were merely fixed on the wooden table. He was thinking about something else entirely. I wasn’t sure if he planned to come here or if it was a last-minute decision. Does he come here often? I shouldn’t care about him at all, but I found myself wondering who he was. I spent so much time asking myself unanswerable questions that directing those interrogations to someone else reassured me, even if I would never know the answers.

As I wondered what could have led him here this evening, he lazily lifted his hand and grabbed the glass, occasionally tapping it with his fingers. I tried to ignore his existence, but something as simple as looking away seemed impossible. Everything about him was the antithesis of my reflection. Calm, confident, relaxed. All of him was a mystery, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he sounded like. My thoughts must have been loud because the silence surrounding us changed almost immediately. 

“You’ll be able to see me in your dreams by now,” he said, smirking.

His voice, deep and velvety, traveled in the air with ease. The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. How long did my internal monologue last? 

“Staring won’t do you any good.” He straightened his back, still looking at the drink in his hand. “If you want to talk, then join me.” 

He shifted his attention to me, observing my reaction in detail. 

“Sorry, I didn’t notice I was staring,” I said, in a foolish attempt to sound confident. I was indeed looking at him, who knows how long, and I couldn’t come up with a better lie. Even if I did, he would see through me, certainly.

“It’s alright,” he said, reassuring me. He dragged the glass closer to him and gestured to the chair in front of him. I almost instinctively got up, but something in the back of my mind begged me to take a moment. Why did I decide to walk through that door? Was it the simple need to change the scenery or a silent hope that my questions would meet their answers? Before I could truly ponder my options, I stood up quickly. I caught his eyes following my steps. 

A smug grin appeared momentarily as he watched me sit on the chair, finally close to him. I heard his foot scrape the floor under the table, to avoid touching my legs. His eyes were dark brown, matching his short hair falling on his face. He swiftly moved the strands that were bothering him away from his eyes. The weak light coming from the lamp cast small shadows on his face, making him seem more like a sculpture than a person. I feared that if I looked at him for too long, he would turn into a puff of smoke and dissipate in the air. However, my eyes were fixed on his, and the way he observed me made it seem like he knew exactly what I was thinking, a defeat I would never truly recover from. 

The silence was broken by his smoky tone.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He said calmly, a hint of curiosity leaving his lips.

“So I’m guessing you come here often?” I asked, this time in a more successful, confident tone.

“Whenever I need to,” he answered, without a care in the world, as if it was the most obvious fact about that evening.

Many people must walk past this place every day, yet it was fairly empty. You could count the number of people inside with your fingers, but all of them were regular customers. That was obvious. The drinks being put in their hands seconds after their arrival made it obvious, and all of them spent the evening alone. I felt out of place, unaware of this pub’s existence until a few weeks ago. 

“Did someone recommend this pub to you? Or did you know about it before?” I asked, suddenly curious about what his answer would be. Besides, the silence between us felt too natural, almost as if no words needed to be said to be understood. I could be imagining things, allowing the atmosphere to change the outcome of our meeting. Now I understand the name of the pub.

“You either look for it, or it finds you,” he replied. “I have a feeling this place found you,” he paused. “Am I right?”

He looked at me, attentive and careful, patiently waiting for a revelation. The glass of whiskey was forgotten. With his eyes staring at mine, my thoughts were no longer hidden. I was left with no words to explain them, much to his amusement. 

“I saw the sign, kalopsia. It sounded interesting, so I walked inside.”

“As simple as that?” he asked, exaggerating a shocked reaction.

“Yes, as simple as that.”

He knew. That sign wasn’t the only reason. To be honest, I couldn’t truly explain the reason why I left my apartment on such a cold, lonely evening. His facial expression was mocking how bad of a liar I was at that moment. 

“You didn’t just stumble into this pub; that’s obvious.” He laid his elbows on the table, leaning closer to me. His fingers intertwined under his chin. “You’re like everybody else in here, looking for answers.”

A strand of hair fell to his eyes again, but he didn’t push it away this time. He smelled like cigarette smoke. He was looking at me like he knew me. I couldn’t help but lean closer too, the distance between us disappearing with each sentence. We don’t even know each other's names.

“So I guess you’re exactly like me?”

I figured, why should I stop myself from knowing more about him?

“No doubt about that.” He answered, smiling. 

A simple answer to a simple question. Still, I hoped he would say more. Despite clashing with the atmosphere of the pub, he looked the most at home. Comfortable in conversation, calm yet mysterious, saying only enough details to keep me guessing. I wonder what else he could deduce just by looking at me. I noticed one of his eyebrows raised now and then, his eyes searching for meaning in every movement. The most obvious detail in that conversation was how words could say less than seconds of silence. That place, the faint lighting surrounding us, the mirror’s images of infinity, and his presence in front of me, everything felt like a dream, a story meant to live only in books.

Afraid to disrupt the quiet moment, my shaky voice was barely audible.

“Have you found the answers you’ve been looking for?” 

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” 

Another vague explanation. He simply took a sip of whiskey and waited patiently for me to continue. I was determined to know more, and he was aware of it.

“So… Do you think you’ll get your answers this evening?” I scoffed, “Like some sort of epiphany?” 

“You sound doubtful,” he grinned. “Did I just sense some annoyance in your voice?” That smile. I knew he wasn’t over it yet, pausing for just enough time to look me in the eyes.

“Or incredulity?” he finished, allowing me a minute to think about it.

I couldn’t help but sound more annoyed than I truly was. Perhaps his vagueness was starting to rile me up. Or perhaps he was right. I was truly in disbelief at the idea that hope could lead us to an epiphany on a normal autumn evening. Just the simplicity of it was like a mock to the countless months of searching and failing to find the final answer.

I had to sound more confident, and the sudden anger, or incredulity as he put it, would certainly help.

“It just doesn’t make sense that someone like you, or me, could simply hold on to hope,” I said. “It’s like believing in love at first sight; it’s a waste of time and—”

“Why would that be a waste of time?” He asked instantly, curiosity taking over his voice.

“How could it not?” 

“Well, someone could meet a stranger and feel an immediate connection, right?” He said, pronouncing each word clearly, never letting his smile fade, “Don’t act like you don’t know what that feels like.”

I didn’t allow myself to think about that final comment. He could’ve omitted that from the discussion, but being right was more important to him. 

“Okay, but the concept itself? It doesn't happen in real life, only in fairytales or something similar,” I paused. ”It's fiction.”

That word came out like poison. Nothing ends blissfully in real life; happy endings exist only in stories. That was a conclusion I reached without the help of hopeful epiphanies.

He was deep in thought. His mask fell for a moment, trying to find the right words. In the meantime, the waiter brought another glass of whiskey to our table despite none of us asking for it. I couldn’t tell if it was meant for him or me. With two glasses between us, he finally decided to speak.

“If you refuse to believe that good things can happen, you won’t even notice when they knock on your door.” He talked slower, staring intensely at me, letting his low voice capture my full attention. Every word sounded important, like a key to unlock a steel door. “You’d be running away from a possibility of happiness,” he paused, turning almost into a whisper, “a serendipity.”

I was struck with a feeling I haven't recognized in a long time. He finished what was left of his drink in a second, making me suddenly aware of the rings on his fingers, hitting the glass as he laid it back on the table. The ice cubes had practically melted. A pointless detail I noticed, yet another one to add to the list of things I would remember about this night.

He was right, though. If we immediately push back the possibility of serendipity, it can easily disappear as suddenly as it arrived. Hope is a funny thing, meant to ease our pain and bring comfort. I have always disregarded it and continuously considered it a waste of time. 

I don’t know how long I was quiet, holding the glass in front of me without ever thinking about bringing it to my lips. It was his hand touching mine that made me focus on him again. His eyes looked different from what they looked like before, softer and calmer, just like his voice.

“You walked through that door for a reason. Everyone that comes in here has something to face, or an answer to find,” he said, “You don’t walk through that door unless you still feel hopeful… Who knows, you might even find that epiphany.” 

Maybe that was the reason I decided to come to this pub. A silly thought that a mysterious place hidden in plain sight could somehow change my perspective and offer me something new and interesting. Perhaps it wasn’t silly at all, having met someone that helped me reach a conclusion. Well, not necessarily a conclusion, but more like a step towards the right path that will lead to one. Then, walking through that door was truly worth it. And perhaps it was worth it for the other people that found this place and were intrigued by the name. Kalopsia is truly the correct word to define this place.

Yet, something still lingered in the back of my mind.

“Are you implying that there’s like a magical force that tempts you to come inside?” I asked, “It’s just a pub, like any other.”

“We both know that’s not what you really think.”

His small, kind smile turned into a smirk once again. Lost in thought, the glass in his hand moved slowly in circles, and what was left of the ice cubes melted completely. 

He was right about many things tonight, starting with our instant connection, drawing us closer with each word. The conversation made me acutely aware of how I saw myself and my life and how the concept of hope shouldn’t be dismissed. I was still looking for answers, but this moment we shared was enough to make me more interested in what the future could offer. The decision to leave my apartment led me to meet him, serendipity. 

While glancing back at his empty drink, I noticed my reflection in the mirror next to us. He wasn’t the only one smirking. I was smiling too, subconsciously copying his demeanor. We both shared a look through the mirror’s reflection, and I noticed his confidence slip away for just a moment, struggling to find the final sentence to end this conversation.

It was getting late, so I helped him find the words.

“Why did you walk inside…” I said, catching him stealing a look at my lips. “What answer were you hoping to find?”

A chuckle echoed in my ears. He was back to his confident self, and the final sentence was everything I could have wished to hear, leaving enough mystery for another conversation.

“That’s up to you to find out.” 

His voice resonated in my chest, a low, smooth sound I would never forget. I knew that was the end of this conversation. At least for today. He took some money out of his wallet and put it on the table. I knew he had paid for my drink as well. The chair in front of me was suddenly empty, and I knew this was the right time to say goodbye for now.

“I hope I’ll see you again someday,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder for a second longer. The conversation was about to end. I felt it, and so did he. Yet, I couldn’t let him leave without a final sentence on my part.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said, curious about his reaction. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“As you said, we’ll see each other again, so why rush?”

He didn’t say goodbye definitely, and neither did I. I watched him walk towards the door, memorizing every detail. 

I was suddenly alone again, with two glasses in front of me, one untouched and the other one empty. The door closed, but it didn’t feel like an ending. It definitely didn’t feel like an ending. And that was enough.

[thewaysomesciencefictiondoes505]

arctic monkeys at pacific coliseum, vancouver, 2023.

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Don't get emotional, that ain't like you...

[thewaysomesciencefictiondoes505]

Kalopsia - part 1 / short story

I wrote this story nearly two years ago, but I didn't know where to post it. I figured some arctic monkeys fans might enjoy it. I wrote it with the song nº1 party anthem in mind. Please tell me if you like it, and if I should continue this story!

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Kalopsia, part 1

What is the secret to finding your passion? College taught me that some people discover their raison d’être without much deliberation. Those lucky ones share the same glint in their eyes, catching glimpses of their future at the turn of a page. This gentle self-reflection remains an incomprehensible concept to me, and their apparent success is a constant reminder of the monotony I live in. Asking questions became predictable, followed always by silence. I’m haunted by a plethora of unpursued passions. The answers seem to exist near me, in every footstep from my bed to the kitchen, waiting for me to notice. If I could only stretch my arm a little more, perhaps I would be able to faintly touch that confident explanation. But the night is starting to greet us earlier, and no matter how tightly I grasp the memories of summer, the echoes of those voices aren’t enough to keep me warm. The year is coming to an end, and nothing has changed. What appears to be obvious to others remains a mystery to me. Staring at the night sky gives comfort to some people, not because of the beauty intrinsic to it, but because of the contradiction it conveys. It’s the known and unknown coexisting, the nothingness shaking hands with significance. Your doubts dissolve into the void, painting the late hours of dawn like a dream. 

This feeling arose stronger than before as a consequence of my decision to spend the evening in a different place. The tedium persuaded me to change the scenery. A lonely pub doesn’t quite sound like the greatest setting for self-reflection, but the unlikelihood of being seen there made it the perfect location. It also allowed my thoughts to wander, instead of focusing on my current overwhelming uncertainty, hindering my chances of change. 

I wish I could bring home that atmosphere, or at least melt into it and become one with the air. 

It’s quite hidden, barely visible during the day, let alone at night. The passersby could easily fail to notice the entrance. The door itself is plain and uninteresting, only displaying a sign with the word ‘kalopsia’ without any other information. It doesn’t have bright, flashy lights pointing at the door, asking you to come in. The color of the letters faded, leaving only a touch of what once was red and gold. The exterior blends in with the city, old and outdated. When night arrives, the pub succeeds in disappearing completely. 

I saw that sign for the first time on my way to work some weeks ago. I took an alternative route, hoping to listen to more people living their lives, walking their dogs, spilling coffee, bumping into each other by accident, or criticizing a badly parked car. Kalopsia is the delusion of things appearing more beautiful than they are. The word itself made me intrigued. After thinking about the pub for weeks, I researched it online. The website didn’t show any pictures of the interior, only the menu, as well as the address. I admit there was a feeling of anticipation, like a strange enthusiasm for the unknown. The mysterious nature of the pub was impossible to deny, and that only made me more interested in it. The unpredictable atmosphere drew me in, but the need to forget my reality was the principal factor for my decision. A few people were walking directly toward the entrance, but their footsteps sounded confident. Their shoes hit the ground with certainty, each step filled with purpose, echoing and signaling their arrival. Mine were more cautious, afraid of feeling out of place.

The door opened softly. There were mirrors on every wall and golden lamps on every round table. It was still fairly empty and quiet, or at least it appeared that way. The reflections on the mirrors made the pub look bigger than it truly was. The dark wooden tables and golden decorations made it look like an elegant and sophisticated place, a huge contrast with the view from the outside. The few customers inside were focused, and no one batted an eye as I closed the door and walked nervously to the furthest table I saw. It was obvious that the regular customers would simply aim for a specific table, and despite no words being exchanged, a drink would be put in their hands. The lamps didn’t offer much light, illuminating only the drinks in front of them. Not even a minute had passed when a tall man approached me with the question I hadn’t thought about all evening. It’s rare to visit such places, and the knowledge of drinks was nonexistent. I muttered what came to mind: whiskey. The glass landed in my hands before I could change my mind. The shadows hide my face. The glass in my hands looks more alive than I do. I swirled the whiskey and listened to the ice cubes hitting the glass. All I have is a temporary job and an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. Instead of focusing on changing it, I'm at an unknown pub during the evening without a plan. The endless questions decided to walk into my mind uninvited, an annoying “guest” that doesn't quite understand when it’s time to go. I was unaware of how tightly my fingers were grasping the glass until a door cracking open shifted my attention entirely. 

He felt like a ghost hidden inside the walls, waiting for the perfect moment to make his appearance. An intimidating demeanor that doesn’t quite fit with the mood. A juxtaposition. Yet, he waltzed in unnoticed by the others. Light painted his movements as he walked across the wooden floor, sunglasses dangling in his hand with each step. He was wearing black denim jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and a slim-fitted leather jacket. Every detail of his clashed with the atmosphere of this place. Nevertheless, his small mannerisms were, somehow, captivating. Unbothered. Calm. I could hear someone hurriedly making a drink, so his presence must be usual. 

The glass slipped from my fingers, hitting the table with a loud thud. I hastily tried to find a napkin to clean up the spilled whiskey. His steps sounded closer, each step counting the seconds it took me to pretend I wasn’t embarrassed. As he walked past me, a slight wind hit my face, intoxicating me with his presence. The glass never touched my lips, and the embarrassment didn’t let me ask for another drink. I slumped back onto my chair, doubtful of my decision to visit this place, but at the same time intrigued by the man who had lazily sat near me. 

We were separated only by an empty table, allowing us to face each other. As much as I hated to admit it, I was mesmerized by his presence. His eyes were merely fixed on the wooden table. He was thinking about something else entirely. I wasn’t sure if he planned to come here or if it was a last-minute decision. Does he come here often? I shouldn’t care about him at all, but I found myself wondering who he was. I spent so much time asking myself unanswerable questions that directing those interrogations to someone else reassured me, even if I would never know the answers.

As I wondered what could have led him here this evening, he lazily lifted his hand and grabbed the glass, occasionally tapping it with his fingers. I tried to ignore his existence, but something as simple as looking away seemed impossible. Everything about him was the antithesis of my reflection. Calm, confident, relaxed. All of him was a mystery, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he sounded like. My thoughts must have been loud because the silence surrounding us changed almost immediately. 

“You’ll be able to see me in your dreams by now,” he said, smirking.

His voice, deep and velvety, traveled in the air with ease. The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. How long did my internal monologue last? 

“Staring won’t do you any good.” He straightened his back, still looking at the drink in his hand. “If you want to talk, then join me.” 

He shifted his attention to me, observing my reaction in detail. 

“Sorry, I didn’t notice I was staring,” I said, in a foolish attempt to sound confident. I was indeed looking at him, who knows how long, and I couldn’t come up with a better lie. Even if I did, he would see through me, certainly.

“It’s alright,” he said, reassuring me. He dragged the glass closer to him and gestured to the chair in front of him. I almost instinctively got up, but something in the back of my mind begged me to take a moment. Why did I decide to walk through that door? Was it the simple need to change the scenery or a silent hope that my questions would meet their answers? Before I could truly ponder my options, I stood up quickly. I caught his eyes following my steps. 

A smug grin appeared momentarily as he watched me sit on the chair, finally close to him. I heard his foot scrape the floor under the table, to avoid touching my legs. His eyes were dark brown, matching his short hair falling on his face. He swiftly moved the strands that were bothering him away from his eyes. The weak light coming from the lamp cast small shadows on his face, making him seem more like a sculpture than a person. I feared that if I looked at him for too long, he would turn into a puff of smoke and dissipate in the air. However, my eyes were fixed on his, and the way he observed me made it seem like he knew exactly what I was thinking, a defeat I would never truly recover from. 

The silence was broken by his smoky tone.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He said calmly, a hint of curiosity leaving his lips.

“So I’m guessing you come here often?” I asked, this time in a more successful, confident tone.

“Whenever I need to,” he answered, without a care in the world, as if it was the most obvious fact about that evening.

Many people must walk past this place every day, yet it was fairly empty. You could count the number of people inside with your fingers, but all of them were regular customers. That was obvious. The drinks being put in their hands seconds after their arrival made it obvious, and all of them spent the evening alone. I felt out of place, unaware of this pub’s existence until a few weeks ago. 

“Did someone recommend this pub to you? Or did you know about it before?” I asked, suddenly curious about what his answer would be. Besides, the silence between us felt too natural, almost as if no words needed to be said to be understood. I could be imagining things, allowing the atmosphere to change the outcome of our meeting. Now I understand the name of the pub.

“You either look for it, or it finds you,” he replied. “I have a feeling this place found you,” he paused. “Am I right?”

He looked at me, attentive and careful, patiently waiting for a revelation. The glass of whiskey was forgotten. With his eyes staring at mine, my thoughts were no longer hidden. I was left with no words to explain them, much to his amusement. 

“I saw the sign, kalopsia. It sounded interesting, so I walked inside.”

“As simple as that?” he asked, exaggerating a shocked reaction.

“Yes, as simple as that.”

He knew. That sign wasn’t the only reason. To be honest, I couldn’t truly explain the reason why I left my apartment on such a cold, lonely evening. His facial expression was mocking how bad of a liar I was at that moment. 

“You didn’t just stumble into this pub; that’s obvious.” He laid his elbows on the table, leaning closer to me. His fingers intertwined under his chin. “You’re like everybody else in here, looking for answers.”

A strand of hair fell to his eyes again, but he didn’t push it away this time. He smelled like cigarette smoke. He was looking at me like he knew me. I couldn’t help but lean closer too, the distance between us disappearing with each sentence. We don’t even know each other's names.

“So I guess you’re exactly like me?”

I figured, why should I stop myself from knowing more about him?

“No doubt about that.” He answered, smiling. 

A simple answer to a simple question. Still, I hoped he would say more. Despite clashing with the atmosphere of the pub, he looked the most at home. Comfortable in conversation, calm yet mysterious, saying only enough details to keep me guessing. I wonder what else he could deduce just by looking at me. I noticed one of his eyebrows raised now and then, his eyes searching for meaning in every movement. The most obvious detail in that conversation was how words could say less than seconds of silence. That place, the faint lighting surrounding us, the mirror’s images of infinity, and his presence in front of me, everything felt like a dream, a story meant to live only in books.

Afraid to disrupt the quiet moment, my shaky voice was barely audible.

“Have you found the answers you’ve been looking for?” 

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” 

Another vague explanation. He simply took a sip of whiskey and waited patiently for me to continue. I was determined to know more, and he was aware of it.

“So… Do you think you’ll get your answers this evening?” I scoffed, “Like some sort of epiphany?” 

“You sound doubtful,” he grinned. “Did I just sense some annoyance in your voice?” That smile. I knew he wasn’t over it yet, pausing for just enough time to look me in the eyes.

“Or incredulity?” he finished, allowing me a minute to think about it.

I couldn’t help but sound more annoyed than I truly was. Perhaps his vagueness was starting to rile me up. Or perhaps he was right. I was truly in disbelief at the idea that hope could lead us to an epiphany on a normal autumn evening. Just the simplicity of it was like a mock to the countless months of searching and failing to find the final answer.

I had to sound more confident, and the sudden anger, or incredulity as he put it, would certainly help.

“It just doesn’t make sense that someone like you, or me, could simply hold on to hope,” I said. “It’s like believing in love at first sight; it’s a waste of time and—”

“Why would that be a waste of time?” He asked instantly, curiosity taking over his voice.

“How could it not?” 

“Well, someone could meet a stranger and feel an immediate connection, right?” He said, pronouncing each word clearly, never letting his smile fade, “Don’t act like you don’t know what that feels like.”

I didn’t allow myself to think about that final comment. He could’ve omitted that from the discussion, but being right was more important to him. 

“Okay, but the concept itself? It doesn't happen in real life, only in fairytales or something similar,” I paused. ”It's fiction.”

That word came out like poison. Nothing ends blissfully in real life; happy endings exist only in stories. That was a conclusion I reached without the help of hopeful epiphanies.

He was deep in thought. His mask fell for a moment, trying to find the right words. In the meantime, the waiter brought another glass of whiskey to our table despite none of us asking for it. I couldn’t tell if it was meant for him or me. With two glasses between us, he finally decided to speak.

“If you refuse to believe that good things can happen, you won’t even notice when they knock on your door.” He talked slower, staring intensely at me, letting his low voice capture my full attention. Every word sounded important, like a key to unlock a steel door. “You’d be running away from a possibility of happiness,” he paused, turning almost into a whisper, “a serendipity.”

I was struck with a feeling I haven't recognized in a long time. He finished what was left of his drink in a second, making me suddenly aware of the rings on his fingers, hitting the glass as he laid it back on the table. The ice cubes had practically melted. A pointless detail I noticed, yet another one to add to the list of things I would remember about this night.

He was right, though. If we immediately push back the possibility of serendipity, it can easily disappear as suddenly as it arrived. Hope is a funny thing, meant to ease our pain and bring comfort. I have always disregarded it and continuously considered it a waste of time. 

I don’t know how long I was quiet, holding the glass in front of me without ever thinking about bringing it to my lips. It was his hand touching mine that made me focus on him again. His eyes looked different from what they looked like before, softer and calmer, just like his voice.

“You walked through that door for a reason. Everyone that comes in here has something to face, or an answer to find,” he said, “You don’t walk through that door unless you still feel hopeful… Who knows, you might even find that epiphany.” 

Maybe that was the reason I decided to come to this pub. A silly thought that a mysterious place hidden in plain sight could somehow change my perspective and offer me something new and interesting. Perhaps it wasn’t silly at all, having met someone that helped me reach a conclusion. Well, not necessarily a conclusion, but more like a step towards the right path that will lead to one. Then, walking through that door was truly worth it. And perhaps it was worth it for the other people that found this place and were intrigued by the name. Kalopsia is truly the correct word to define this place.

Yet, something still lingered in the back of my mind.

“Are you implying that there’s like a magical force that tempts you to come inside?” I asked, “It’s just a pub, like any other.”

“We both know that’s not what you really think.”

His small, kind smile turned into a smirk once again. Lost in thought, the glass in his hand moved slowly in circles, and what was left of the ice cubes melted completely. 

He was right about many things tonight, starting with our instant connection, drawing us closer with each word. The conversation made me acutely aware of how I saw myself and my life and how the concept of hope shouldn’t be dismissed. I was still looking for answers, but this moment we shared was enough to make me more interested in what the future could offer. The decision to leave my apartment led me to meet him, serendipity. 

While glancing back at his empty drink, I noticed my reflection in the mirror next to us. He wasn’t the only one smirking. I was smiling too, subconsciously copying his demeanor. We both shared a look through the mirror’s reflection, and I noticed his confidence slip away for just a moment, struggling to find the final sentence to end this conversation.

It was getting late, so I helped him find the words.

“Why did you walk inside…” I said, catching him stealing a look at my lips. “What answer were you hoping to find?”

A chuckle echoed in my ears. He was back to his confident self, and the final sentence was everything I could have wished to hear, leaving enough mystery for another conversation.

“That’s up to you to find out.” 

His voice resonated in my chest, a low, smooth sound I would never forget. I knew that was the end of this conversation. At least for today. He took some money out of his wallet and put it on the table. I knew he had paid for my drink as well. The chair in front of me was suddenly empty, and I knew this was the right time to say goodbye for now.

“I hope I’ll see you again someday,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder for a second longer. The conversation was about to end. I felt it, and so did he. Yet, I couldn’t let him leave without a final sentence on my part.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said, curious about his reaction. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“As you said, we’ll see each other again, so why rush?”

He didn’t say goodbye definitely, and neither did I. I watched him walk towards the door, memorizing every detail. 

I was suddenly alone again, with two glasses in front of me, one untouched and the other one empty. The door closed, but it didn’t feel like an ending. It definitely didn’t feel like an ending. And that was enough.

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Mr Schwartz live at Kings Theatre

thank god I screen recorded b4 it was taken down

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Don't get emotional, that ain't like you...

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Arctic Monkeys at 3Arena, Dublin, 19/10/2023. (Photos by astridcmacias)

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photos by Zackery Michael

I love this photoshoot so much

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The Last Shadow Puppets for Yahoo Music