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The first time I heard their story was at Seible’livehouse.
He was far too young, too promising. I would never have guessed he was already such a successful businessman. He leaned idly against the counter, his guarded posture making the air around him feel strangely cold. Had the seats not been taken, I would never have chosen the one beside him. Yet when our eyes met, he slipped into a courteous mask, offering me a polite smile as he asked if I’d like a drink.
Ah—so he was the owner. He hardly looked the part.
“He sings beautifully.”
I spoke lightly, but in that instant Seible’s flawless mask cracked—just slightly, like a fracture splintering across crystal. My heart tightened. He kept his gaze fixed in that one direction, brow furrowed without realizing it. The livehouse was dim, save for the stage where the spotlight clung to the singer.
Curiosity stirred, as if prompted by his role.
“Do you dislike that employee?”
Without looking away, he answered,
“As the owner of here , if I disliked him, I could simply dismiss him.”
But the singer was clearly popular—his voice warm, his stage presence luminous, his joy unmistakable. Even songs heard countless times seemed new when sung by him. Between pieces, he filled the silence with a playful joke. Conversations hushed, laughter sparked. I bit back the urge to defend him.
“But he seems so earnest in his work.”
Seible said nothing, only accepted the tray of drinks and appetizers from a waiter, setting them gently before me.
“Enjoy your evening.”
I knew better than to press further.
The next time I returned, the same seat, the same line of sight—I finally realized something different. Not dislike, but something more intricate. This time he spoke first.
“You can just call me Seible.”
Perhaps it was a ploy to sell more drinks, or simply market research, but he asked if I thought his bar needed improvement. I shook my head. The formality of it all felt stifling, so I teased:
“Not at all. Especially the singer—he sounds even better tonight.”
“That’s because it’s his favorite song.”
The words slipped out too quickly. Realizing it, he gave a strained laugh.
“Is it your favorite too?”
He shook his head , falling briefly into memory.
“There are many songs I love… but I can’t hear them anymore.”
Seeing my confusion, he added,
“After all, I can’t dictate the setlist by my own tastes.”
“Were you two very close?”
Just the other day I worried the singer might be dismissed. Yet now I sensed something else—something intimate.
At once, sorrow flooded his eyes. He faltered, mouth opening, throat tightening.
“Why do you say ‘were’?”
“Because—” I lifted my hand, pointing toward the stage. “Not once has he looked this way.”
Seible followed my gesture. The singer was laughing, bright as sunlight, waving openly at a friend in the crowd. All eyes turned toward him. His joy lit the room, while the man beside me seemed draped in shadow. Two different worlds.
Seible offered no reply. Perhaps wounded, he set down the menu softly and walked the other way.
Over time, as I frequented the bar, familiarity grew. I began to glimpse their past. He told me only this: that they had once been close friends, perhaps since the livehouse’s earliest days.
Seible had sat through Kaelix’s endless rehearsals. Kaelix had once doubled as the livehouse’s bouncer, and Seible would join him at the door to greet guests. In passing, their fingers would brush—just enough to count as their “date” for the day.
“And then? How did you finally get together?”
At that, Seible smiled—his warmest expression since we’d met. He spoke of their first kiss: how his nerves made him bite Kaelix’s lip by mistake, how he feared the moment ruined. But Kaelix only pressed a finger to his mouth and said with a smile,
*it’s all right.*
“Was his smile then the same as the one he shows on stage?”
Seible blinked, surprised at the question. He shook his head.
“I never dared to compare. I’ve tried to stop loving the person he became, tried to let go of the person he once was. All I allow myself… is to dwell on the time that belonged only to us.”
The cast-off drift like tumbleweed through a city—aimless, hurried, without rest. Watching him lower his gaze, voice caught in his throat, I could not speak.
“Then why did you part?”
As I listened, images flickered one after another: the scent of the first bouquet they exchanged, the body wash chosen together when they moved in, the alley cat’s musk they always passed on their walks, the sweetness of desserts untouched after an argument, the lone carton of milk left in the fridge on the day of their separation. And more, and more—so many that I choked, coughing until my eyes watered.
“Maybe humans are simply boring . Myself included.”
“Have you moved on from it? Do you still have regrets?”
He was silent for a long while, then answered as if the words escaped on their own.
“If I had known how it would end, back then—I would have kissed him one more time.”
“Because at your first kiss, you didn’t bite him, did you? You pulled away because you are too shy?”
…Don’t look so startled.
You’ve always known, haven’t you?
I was never real at all. Only something you imagined.”