The week crawled by with the urgency of a snail contemplating retirement. Philip was caught in a cycle of anticipation and dread, mentally rehearsing potential conversations with Emily, only to imagine all the ways they could go wrong immediately. By the time Friday evening arrived, he had changed his outfit four times, settling on what he hoped was the perfect balance of "I made an effort" and "I didn't spend an hour trying on shirts."
"It's just an art gallery," he muttered to his reflection. "People go to these things all the time without having existential crises."
His phone buzzed with a text from Alex: We still meeting there or you want to grab a drink first to calm your nerves?
Philip stared at the message. Was he that transparent?
What nerves? It's just an art gallery, he replied, then immediately followed with: But yeah, let's meet at The Corner first. 7?
Alex's response came quickly: See you at 7. And yes, you are that transparent.
The Corner was a quiet bar a few blocks from the gallery—upscale enough that the cocktail menu included ingredients Philip couldn't pronounce, but not so pretentious that he felt underdressed in his dark jeans and navy button-down. Alex was already there when Philip arrived, nursing something amber-colored with an orange peel twisted artfully on the rim.
"You clean up nice," Alex said by way of greeting. "Very 'cultured gentleman who definitely knows about art.'"
Philip slid onto the barstool beside him. "That's exactly the vibe I was going for. I've been practicing thoughtful nods and saying 'Hmm, interesting technique' while squinting slightly."
"Perfect. Just don't accidentally do it in front of a fire extinguisher again."
"That was one time," Philip protested. "And in my defense, it was mounted on a plinth. How was I supposed to know it wasn't an exhibit called 'Safety in an Unsafe World' or something?"
Alex chuckled and signaled the bartender. "What'll you have? First round's on me."
"Whatever you're having," Philip said, gesturing to Alex's drink. "I need to look sophisticated tonight."
"An Old Fashioned for my friend," Alex told the bartender. "And he's trying to impress a woman, so make it look extra fancy."
The bartender gave a knowing nod. "I'll add a luxardo cherry. Works every time."
"I hate both of you," Philip said without heat.
As they waited for his drink, Philip glanced around the bar. It was filling up with the Friday night crowd—a mix of professionals unwinding after work and younger people starting their weekend. Everyone seemed to exist in their own small universes of conversation and laughter, connected yet separate. He wondered if any of them were also preparing to make fools of themselves in the name of unrequited love.
"So," Alex said, interrupting Philip's thoughts, "what's the game plan for tonight? You finally going to tell this Emily how you feel, or are we doing the usual 'hover nearby and hope she notices me' routine?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of 'engage in intelligent conversation about her art while being charming but not creepy, and see if there's a mutual spark before making any declarations,'" Philip replied, accepting his drink from the bartender with a grateful nod.
"Look at you, with an actual strategy." Alex raised his glass in a toast. "To intelligent conversation and not being creepy."
"The bar is so low," Philip sighed, but clinked his glass against Alex's. The Old Fashioned was strong but smooth, warming his chest as he swallowed.
"So what do you actually know about this woman, besides the blue hair and the camera?" Alex asked.
Philip took another sip, organizing his thoughts. "Not much," he admitted. "We talked briefly at the festival last year. She's a photographer—obviously, given the gallery opening. She laughed at something I said about the light installation looking like a jellyfish having an existential crisis."
"Solid opener," Alex nodded approvingly.
"And then Joe came over and they started talking about some photographer I'd never heard of, and I just kind of... faded into the background." Philip frowned at the memory. "But there was a moment before that—when she laughed—where it felt like... I don't know. Like something could happen."
Alex studied him over the rim of his glass. "One laugh and you've been thinking about her for a year?"
Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. But how could Philip explain that magical moment when the festival lights had caught the blue streak in her hair, making it glow like something from another world? How her laugh had cut through the ambient noise of the crowd like a melody he'd been waiting his whole life to hear? How in that brief exchange, he'd felt truly seen in a way that had become increasingly rare as he approached his late twenties?
"It wasn't just the laugh," he said finally. "It was... a feeling. Like when you hear a song for the first time but it somehow feels familiar."
Alex's expression softened. "Alright, Romeo. I get it. We'll make sure you get some quality time with her tonight." He checked his watch. "Speaking of which, we should head over. Fashionably late is one thing, but missing the whole event is another."
Philip drained the last of his drink, the luxardo cherry a sweet punctuation mark at the bottom of the glass. The alcohol had taken the edge off his anxiety, replacing it with a warm confidence that he knew from experience was partially artificial but welcome nonetheless.
"Let's do this," he said, standing up. "Where are the others meeting us?"
"Paul and Martins are heading there directly. Joe texted that he might be a little late—something about meeting up with someone first." Alex threw some cash on the bar. "Ready to go appreciate some art?"
"As I'll ever be," Philip replied, hoping his voice sounded more certain than he felt.
The gallery was a converted warehouse space in the arts district, all exposed brick and strategic lighting. By the time Philip and Alex arrived, it was already crowded with people holding wine glasses and speaking in the hushed tones reserved for cultural spaces and funerals. The walls were lined with large-format photographs, mostly black and white with occasional bursts of selective color.
"Damn," Alex murmured, surveying the crowd. "Emily must be a big deal. This place is packed."
Philip nodded, suddenly feeling out of place despite his carefully chosen outfit. Everyone here seemed to exude an effortless coolness, like they'd been born knowing how to discuss negative space and composition. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing server, grateful for something to do with his hands.
"There's Paul and Martins," Alex said, nudging Philip and nodding toward the far corner.
They made their way through the crowd to where their friends stood examining a particularly striking photo of an abandoned building, vegetation reclaiming the concrete in vibrant greens that contrasted with the monochrome structure.
"Nature always wins," Paul was saying as they approached. "That's what I love about this series. It's a visual reminder of our temporary existence."
"Or it's just a cool picture of a plant growing through a sidewalk," Martins countered with a grin.
Paul rolled his eyes. "Your literal-mindedness physically pains me sometimes."
"Hey guys," Philip greeted them. "No Joe yet?"
"Fashionably late, as usual," Martins said. "Though he texted that he's on his way." He gave Philip an appraising look. "Nice shirt. Got someone to impress?"
Before Philip could formulate a denial, a voice from behind them said, "You guys made it!"
Philip turned, and suddenly all the rehearsed greetings and clever observations about photography fled his mind. Emily stood before them, her smile as bright as he remembered. Her hair was different—the blue streak now a vibrant purple—but her eyes still held that same intensity, like she was always looking for the perfect shot, even in casual conversation.
She wore a simple black dress with a vintage camera necklace catching the light at her collarbone. Philip had the absurd thought that if he were a photographer, this would be the moment he'd want to capture—Emily surrounded by her work, glowing with accomplishment and the particular beauty that comes from being exactly where you're meant to be.
"Emily! Congratulations," Alex stepped in smoothly, giving her a quick hug. "The place looks amazing. We were just saying what a turnout you have."
"Thanks! I'm still a little in shock, to be honest," she said, her voice carrying a slight tremor of excitement. "I didn't expect so many people."
"You should," Paul interjected. "Your work is incredible. The juxtaposition of decay and growth in the 'Reclamation' series is particularly powerful."
Emily's eyes widened slightly. "You know my work?"
"Paul makes it his business to know everything about everyone," Martins explained. "It's both impressive and slightly disturbing."
"Research is not disturbing, it's thorough," Paul defended himself.
Emily laughed—that same laugh that had haunted Philip's thoughts for a year—and then her gaze finally landed on him. There was a moment of hesitation, a slight squint of concentration, and Philip felt his heart sink. She didn't remember him.
"Philip, right?" she said suddenly, and the weight lifted. "From the Winter Lights Festival. You're the one who compared the main installation to a jellyfish having an existential crisis."
"That's me," Philip managed, both thrilled and mortified that this was his defining characteristic in her memory. "Congratulations on the show. It's..." he gestured to the photographs, searching for something more meaningful than 'nice' but less pretentious than whatever Paul had said about juxtaposition, "...it's stunning. I feel like I'm seeing familiar places through new eyes."
Something in her expression shifted—a subtle softening, maybe recognition of genuine appreciation rather than social politeness. "Thank you. That's exactly what I was going for." She tilted her head slightly. "Would you like a tour? I could explain a bit about the concept behind the series."
Was this happening? Was Emily, the woman he'd been quietly obsessing over for months, actually offering to spend time with him? Philip glanced at his friends, who were all giving him various versions of encouraging nods.
"I'd love that," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Great!" Emily beamed. "Let me just check on something with the gallery owner, and then I'll find you? Grab another glass of wine in the meantime."
"Sounds perfect," Philip said, watching as she moved away through the crowd, stopping occasionally to greet other guests.
The moment she was out of earshot, Alex clapped him on the shoulder. "Look at you, getting a private tour."
"Don't get too excited," Philip warned, though he couldn't keep the smile from his face. "She's probably just being nice. Professional artist stuff."
"Or," Paul countered, "she remembered you specifically from a brief interaction a year ago. That's not nothing."
Hope, that resilient weed, sprouted in Philip's chest despite his best efforts to remain realistic. "We'll see," he said, but internally, he was already imagining conversations extending beyond the gallery, perhaps to a nearby café, numbers exchanged, texts evolving into calls...
"There's Joe," Martins said, interrupting Philip's fantasy.
Joe was making his way toward them, but he wasn't alone. A woman walked beside him, her hand comfortably entwined with his. Philip felt a brief flash of annoyance at Joe for bringing a date to Emily's opening—wouldn't that be awkward for everyone?—but then the couple drew closer, and Philip's world tilted on its axis.
The woman holding Joe's hand had purple hair.
Emily.
"Sorry we're late," Joe called as they approached. "Had to make a quick stop to pick up the lady of the hour." He looked down at Emily with an expression Philip had never seen on his friend's face before—something softer than his usual confident charm, something almost vulnerable.
"You two know each other?" Alex asked, his voice carefully neutral as he shot Philip a quick, concerned glance.
"We met at the festival last year," Emily explained, smiling up at Joe. "Stayed in touch. Started dating about three months ago."
"Three months?" Philip repeated before he could stop himself. Joe had been seeing Emily for three months and had never mentioned it? Not once during their Friday nights at The Rusted Nail, not during any of their countless group texts or hangouts?
Joe at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Yeah, we wanted to keep it low-key at first. And then Emily got the news about this exhibition, and we decided tonight would be the perfect time to, you know, make it official."
"Official," Philip echoed, feeling as though he were speaking from underwater. The noise of the gallery seemed to recede, replaced by a dull roaring in his ears.
"Anyway," Emily said, apparently oblivious to Philip's distress, "I promised Philip a tour of the exhibition. Would you all like to join us?"
Five faces turned toward Philip, expressions ranging from Joe's oblivious enthusiasm to Alex's barely concealed concern. Philip forced his features into what he hoped was a neutral smile.
"Actually," he said, "I just remembered I have to make a call. Work thing. Rain check on that tour?"
"On a Friday night?" Emily asked, her brow furrowing slightly.
"I know, right? No rest for the wicked." The words were coming from somewhere outside himself, some autopilot function that had thankfully taken over while his actual brain was busy shattering into a thousand pieces. "But amazing work, truly. You should be proud."
Before anyone could respond, Philip was moving through the crowd, mumbling "excuse me" on autopilot. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to be anywhere but here, watching Joe—his friend, Joe—with his arm around Emily's waist like it belonged there.
The cool night air hit him like a slap as he burst through the gallery doors. He gulped it down, hands on his knees, feeling ridiculous for reacting so strongly. It wasn't like Emily had been his girlfriend. They'd had one brief conversation a year ago. He had no claim on her, no right to feel betrayed.
And yet.
The door opened behind him, and Alex stepped out. "Thought you might need some company," he said quietly.
"I'm fine," Philip said automatically. Then, more honestly: "No, I'm not. But I will be. Just need a minute."
Alex leaned against the wall beside him, saying nothing, simply offering the comfort of presence. After a few moments, Philip straightened up.
"Three months," he said. "Three fucking months, and Joe never thought to mention it."
"Maybe he didn't know how you felt about her," Alex suggested, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it himself.
"He knew," Philip said with certainty. "That day at the festival, after she walked away, I told him I thought she was amazing. I told him I was thinking of asking for her number." He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful styling he'd spent twenty minutes on earlier. "He said I should go for it, but then he conveniently pulled me away to check out another installation, and I never got the chance."
"Shit," Alex said softly.
"Yeah." Philip stared down the street, watching cars pass, their headlights creating momentary illusions of daylight. "I feel pathetic. I've been thinking about her for a year, and all this time, she's been Joe's girlfriend."
"Not all this time," Alex corrected. "Just three months, apparently."
"Which means Joe waited nine months after the festival before making a move," Philip said, the realization hitting him like a second blow. "Nine months of me occasionally bringing her up, wondering if I'd ever run into her again."
Alex was quiet for a moment. "You want to get out of here? Go somewhere else, get properly drunk?"
The offer was tempting—to retreat, lick his wounds, pretend tonight never happened. But Philip knew that path too well. It led nowhere except to more nights alone in his apartment, wondering what might have been.
"No," he said finally. "No, I'm going back in there. I'm going to look at Emily's photography, compliment her sincerely on her talent, and be happy for my friend who found someone great." He took a deep breath. "And then tomorrow, I'll be properly pathetic and wallow in self-pity with ice cream and sad movies."
Alex smiled, a mixture of pride and sympathy. "That's oddly mature of you."
"I'm evolving," Philip deadpanned. "Slowly and painfully, like one of those fish that first crawled onto land and immediately regretted all its life choices."
Alex laughed, and Philip felt a fraction of the weight lift from his chest. He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his shirt, and prepared to face the gallery again.
"Ready?" Alex asked.
"Ready as I'll ever be," Philip replied, reaching for the door.
As they re-entered the gallery, Philip caught sight of Emily and Joe across the room. They were standing in front of one of her photographs, Joe's arm draped casually around her shoulders, her head tilted up toward him as she explained something about the image. They looked natural together, comfortable in a way that spoke of genuine connection rather than mere attraction.
And in that moment, watching them, Philip felt something unexpected alongside the sting of rejection: a tiny spark of hope. Not for Emily—that ship had clearly sailed—but for the possibility that such comfort, such natural connection, might exist for him too. Somewhere. Someday.
It wasn't much. But as he moved deeper into the gallery, determined to appreciate the art even if he couldn't have the artist, Philip held onto that spark, shielding it from the winds of disappointment like a fragile flame.
One rejection down. A lifetime to go.