Page 58 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

Ghosting is the modern term for it.

And ghosting is—unfortunately—the love story of most queer people.

I stared at our chat thread longer than I should have, my thumb hovering over the keyboard like I was about to say something that would change the outcome.

But I didn’t. Because what was there to say?

“Hey, was it just sex?”

I already knew the answer.

But then again, Lorenzo wasn’t Victor.

He wasn’t a story I was trying to hold onto.

He was just a moment that felt good while it lasted.

I was somewhere entirely different by Friday night, with different company.

Andre walked beside me like he owned the night, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered and cool.

We made our way up to the second floor, past the restaurant downstairs where everything felt warm and polished in that quiet. But the moment we reached the top, the energy shifted.

The bass hit first. It was low, steady, and enough to settle your chest without asking for permission.

And then I saw it.

The ceiling shimmered like a night sky, with tiny lights scattered across it, soft and endless, like stars suspended just above us. The entire space felt dipped in something celestial, like we had stepped out of Southside and into some pocket universe that only existed after dark.

The lighting moved in soft waves—deep blues, purples, hints of silver catching on glass and skin—making everything glow just enough to feel unreal. The bar itself pulsed quietly at the center, bottles reflecting light like constellations, like every drink came with its own orbit.

“What was the name of this bar again?” I asked, glancing up at the ceiling like I might find the answer written somewhere between the fake stars.

“Beat,” Andre answered.

His hand pressed against my back as he guided me through the room like he’d done it a hundred times before with his dates.

And of course he had, but with women. He was a gentleman with me because I actually made a non-homophobic, straight guy friend with secure masculinity.

We slid into a booth, tucked just far enough from the crowd to feel private, but still close enough to the bar to stay part of the energy.

But before I could even fully settle in, a waiter appeared with a timing so precise it almost felt rehearsed.

“Welcome back, Sir Andre,” he said warmly, already placing drinks in front of us. “Your usual.”

Andre gave a small nod—as if this wasn’t special.

I blinked, looking from the perfectly poured drinks to him.

“Of course, you’re a ‘they know your order’ kind of person,” I muttered, half impressed, half amused.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I want you to take your mind off things.”

I shrugged.

Because apparently, while I was getting ghosted on earth, Andre had reserved a spot for us in the galaxy.

Then the waiter turned to me, setting down a cocktail.