Sweet Romance11 min read
You Are My Spotlight
ButterPicks12 views
I was waiting in the dark, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the tablet on my lap.
"Why didn't you turn the light on?" Cedar Liang's voice came through the doorway, casual, as if he had every right to step into my silence.
I had been listening to two recordings—two tiny minutes each—on a voice app I shouldn't have opened. I had told myself I'd only listen once. I had told myself I'd be brave. I had told myself it was okay to know. But the fingers holding the tablet were trembling the moment he walked in.
"I wrapped up early," Cedar said, smiling. "Didn't want to keep you waiting."
He dropped down beside me like he belonged in my life by right. His breath warmed my cheek before the kiss landed, careful and practiced.
I turned my face away at the last second. He kissed my temple and laughed softly.
"What's wrong?"
When the tablet hit him, it was instinct more than plan. The cover's corner nicked Cedar's eye. A thin line of red blossomed on his skin; he blinked, stunned.
"Janessa—what are you doing?" he asked, voice lax, like a man who could charm any moment back into order.
From the living room, he sounded so composed. From the recording I had heard a few minutes earlier, he had sounded different.
"She was just a plaything," a man's voice—Cedar's voice—said in the recording. "Just someone to pass the time."
My limbs had felt leaden a second before. Now they were lighter in a terrible way. I could hardly breathe.
"Stop," I said. "Don't come closer."
"It was before me," he pleaded, words tumbling. "It was nothing now. Let me explain."
He tried to touch my hair. I pushed his hand away. There was a bruise forming where the tablet had hit him; his face looked suddenly fragile.
"You don't get to explain," I said. "Not anymore."
Outside, rain had started, though the sky had been clear when I left the office. By the time I shoved my feet into sandals and ran into the street, the city sounded like a drumline. I only had a thin T-shirt on. The rain burned on my skin. I didn't care. I wanted to leave the apartment, the bed, the smell of his cologne.
"Please," he shouted after me as I flagged down a taxi. "Just listen. Let me—"
"Is that necessary?" I said, looking at him with a face I hardly recognized. "Why would you ask me that?"
His expression cracked. For the first time I saw a man who didn't have an answer for me. He stood in the rain watching the taxi close its door, his hair plastered to his forehead, soggy dress shoes and an open collar. He looked small. Then he watched me pull away until he was a dot in the rearview.
I didn't go home that night. I went to Bella's place and slept on her couch with the tablet buzzing in my bag like a second heartbeat.
The first recording had been from last Christmas. He had messaged to say a work crisis was keeping him, but we'd agreed to eat at eight. He had sat across from me and his eyes had given me warmth; he had held my hand; at the time I thought everything he’d ever said was real.
"You looked so worried," he had said, pressing my fingers in his. "Just eat. I'll be there."
The second recording—tiny, like a heartbeat—had a woman's voice agreeing with him, mocking, casual. My name didn't come up. My face wasn't mentioned. I was supposed to be invisible in it. He had said of me, "She is nothing. Young. Fun. Disposable."
I left Cedar Liang because I wanted more than crumbs. I had loved voraciously, with the kind of faith that made the ordinary feel sacred. He had been handsome, polished, a director at work. He was everything I thought I wanted.
"Do you have something to say?" I asked when he came back, clean shirt now, a bandage by his eye.
"You always did look best in the light," he said, trying to turn this into a compliment. "Let me help."
"Let me what?" I spat. "Let me pretend like I didn't hear you? Let me pretend that you are honest?"
He stepped closer. "You’re making this a scene."
"Good." I crossed my arms. The words came out faster than my fear. "Good. I want a scene."
He went through the motions—apologize, beg, promise. He knew the lines that made any woman flinch. "I will change. I love you."
"You said that to someone else," I told him. The bandage at his eye looked ridiculous. He had always been good at finding excuses for the misalignment of his life and his words.
"That was before us," he said. "Give me a chance."
"Explain to me why I should believe you," I said. "Why I shouldn't believe a thirty-second voice message instead of the man who's standing in my living room."
He tensed. "You always make mountains out of molehills."
"Mountains?" I laughed. A brittle sound. "You think sleeping with other women while calling me 'naive' is a molehill?"
When I left, the rain had stopped. I let the city swallow his figure. I stopped waiting for the phone to ring. I slept badly. The next day, work was a blur. I told myself to breathe.
Bella found me half-dressed in her kitchen that morning. "You look like a ghost," she said, handing me coffee.
"Thanks," I said. "What would I do without you?"
She was blunt and loud and perfect. "You did what you needed. Let him stew."
"That's not enough," I admitted. "I don't know what is."
We went out because she insisted. A small bar, not the sort where Cedar would ever take me. I wanted to disappear and she wanted to drown me in loud music and bad decisions.
I slipped on spilled beer and fell into the arms of a stranger who carried bad-boy energy and a smile like mischief. He was younger than me, inked and messy and completely the opposite of Cedar. He kissed my forehead like a friend and then offered to carry me to my table.
"Who are you?" Bella asked when I sat down, cheeks flushed.
"This is Drake Monteiro," the stranger said when he joined us. "Nice to meet you."
"Drake?" I repeated, internally tsking for the cliché. But Drake had a grin that made the bar's neon look pale.
"Drake," he confirmed, like it was a name he was used to hearing fondly. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
So he stayed—because friends insisted, because I let him. He carried me out of the bar when I got dizzy. He brushed my hair. He had a dimple on the right cheek that made me childish and stupid.
Bella winked at him. "You're my hero."
The next day was awkward. Cedar had the gall to show up at my door with roses and apologies. "Janessa, please," he said. "Let’s talk."
"There's nothing to talk about," I said. "You didn't talk when you needed to."
He pushed—quietly, persistently. "We belong together. Remember when we started dating? The New Year's message? I meant every word."
"You meant the words you wanted me to hear," I said. "Not the actions that might prove them."
He tried to shame me. "You’re making a scene in public." In his world, shame was a weapon. I grabbed my coat.
"Fine," he said, voice low. "Fine, then—"
"Stop," I snapped. "Do you ever stop trying to be my director?"
He looked like a man about to lose a camera shot. "We can work this out."
"I don't want any more work," I said. "I want honesty."
He went white. "It's complicated," he muttered. "You don't understand what it's like at my level."
"At your level or in your head?" I asked.
Then a young man’s voice floated from near the doorway. "This is getting juicy."
Drake leaned against the frame like he owned the floor. "You okay?" he asked me, openly amused. "You look like you'd rather be onstage."
"Honestly, I would," I said. "At least the stage doesn't lie to me."
We pushed Cedar out the door with little ceremony. When he walked away, I felt layered—liberated and very afraid.
Drake followed me to the dance studio he claimed was his domain. The place smelled of rosin and sweat and the kind of energy that makes your heart light. His friends greeted me like I'd always belonged. "Welcome, 'Mrs. Monteiro,'" one of them joked.
"Stop," I blushed.
Drake was not all swagger. He could be gentle in a way that made me want to be better. "Come on," he said. "Let me teach you again."
I had danced in school; life had pushed that part of me to a corner. Drake’s voice pulled it out.
"You're serious about this?" I asked.
"Very," he said. "Twenty-four hours the phone's on. I answer you."
"That's a lot of pressure," I said.
"Good pressure," he smiled. "You said you wanted to stop thinking about him. Think about the music."
We trained every day. Drake was tough with me. He pushed me past embarrassment and laziness and then, slowly, I began to move differently. My body remembered what my mind had tried to forget.
"You're getting better," he said one night as we sat on the studio floor dripping sweat and laughing.
"I feel like I haven't been myself," I said. "For years."
"Why did you stop?" he asked.
Because I loved someone who didn't deserve me. Because I let a man who'd never made me a priority take my time. "I thought being steady meant giving everything to someone else."
"That's not steady," Drake said, shaking his head. "That's losing yourself in someone who doesn't see you."
Sometimes he teased me on purpose. Other times he was raw and sincere. There were moments—scenes, really—when he looked at me and the world went quieter. He would fix my hair or steady my feet, and I felt seen. Not like a conquest, not like a consolation prize. I felt recognized.
"Do you think you can dance the duet?" he asked, showing me a video.
"It looks like couples' work," I said.
"It’s a story," he said. "Two people learning to trust. Does that scare you?"
"Maybe," I confessed.
"Good," he said, grinning. "Then let's make them believe it's real."
We rehearsed until my calves ached. He made me laugh when I wanted to melt into tears. He made me angry when he was stubborn. When he was quiet, I felt safe.
The big night arrived: a campus festival where Drake's team was performing. I was a bundle of nerves, knees knocking. I hadn't stood under lights in years. Drake took my hand backstage.
"Just remember tonight," he told me. "This is for you."
Up on the grass the lights burned like a small sun. We danced, and the music filled the space between us. When the final move came, Drake turned me, then held me from behind. The audience erupted. He bent his head and kissed my forehead.
"It's only upholstery," he said later, pressing his cheek to mine. "But it's mine."
When the crowd thinned, we walked home, fingers intertwined. Then Cedar sat on a bench under a streetlight, face cold.
"Cedar," I said, bracing. "You didn't need to come."
"You can't do this," he said. "You used me."
"Used you?" I echoed. "No, Cedar. I loved you foolishly. I thought the man I saw was the whole man."
"You think you're so noble now," he said, voice tight. "You think you can toss me like last week's coffee? I had things—reasons."
Reasons. I swallowed my anger and a strange pity. But pity isn't for manipulators.
Drake stepped forward. "You want to make this a fight?" he asked.
Cedar's mouth tightened. "I could."
"Don't," Drake said. His voice was low, the way you warn a dog not to bite.
"You think you can step in?" Cedar sneered. "You think you can take what's mine?"
"What's yours? A habit," Drake said. "Tonight you exposed your own lies."
Cedar laughed too long, too loudly. "You think they'll believe you? Your little show? They know me. They know what I've built."
I didn't speak.
"If you want to hurt me, go ahead," I said finally. "But if so, do it with facts."
The next morning, I decided to take a stand in public. I sent a message to the company event organizer—Felix Lynch, our mutual colleague—and asked if I could speak for a minute after the meeting. My heart hammered, but I didn't care.
"Janessa," Felix said into the microphone later, surprised by my request. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I answered. The conference room filled with faces, some curious, some bored. Cedar sat at the head of the table, confident as ever. He smiled at me with teeth that had learned to charm.
I stood and walked to the front. My voice trembled, but it was steady. "I have something to say," I said.
Heads turned. Phones lit up like a flock of fireflies.
"You may wonder why I asked to speak," I said. "You may wonder why I'm standing here instead of being quiet. But I believe in the truth."
Cedar's smile faltered.
"Two days ago," I continued, "I heard something I wasn't meant to hear. I heard a man talking as if the relationships he has are lines in a play. I deserve to be told the truth. All of us deserve honesty."
A murmur. Cedar rumbled, "This is private."
"Private," I repeated. "Not when it affects people who thought they were loved."
"Janessa," he said, rising. "This is petty."
"Then let's stop with the petty defense," I said. "I want everyone here to listen."
I pressed play on my tablet.
The room filled with sound: Cedar's voice, casual and cold; a woman's voice laughing and agreeing. They talked about dates, about looking for opportunities, about me as if I were scenery.
The room was silent. Phones were out. People watched Cedar carefully as if seeing him for the first time.
"You're lying," Cedar said at first, then, as the recording continued, his face drained.
"Is this true?" asked a woman from HR.
Cedar's arrogance ended. He tried to pivot, to apologize, to claim context. "You don't understand—"
"No," I said, lifting my chin. "I do. I understood before I walked in tonight. I understood when I first opened my eyes and the world no longer seemed to belong to just the two of us."
People shifted. Felix looked shocked. Colleagues who had once admired Cedar glanced at him with a new stiffness.
"You've been two-faced," Drake said quietly from the back. Then he stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder.
"Is this all there is?" Cedar asked, voice small suddenly. "People will believe whatever they hear."
"They heard you," Dexter—no, Felix—clarified. "We heard you."
Phones recorded. Someone uploaded a clip to a company chat. Whispered condemnations traveled faster than the coffee cart. Coworkers who had once nodded at Cedar's jokes now avoided his eyes.
Cedar's face moved through stages—composure, confusion, denial, anger, then collapse. He tried to joke. "This is a misunderstanding." He accused me of setting him up.
"You checked my phone," he said. "Is that legal?"
"Legal? Perhaps not," I answered. "Moral? Yes."
He flailed. "How dare you—"
"You dare," Bella said from the doorway, voice strong. "How dare you say that any woman is disposable."
"Janessa, don't do this," he begged, crouching almost on his knees. "Please. I'll fix it. I'll make it right."
His pleas were thin and limp. People who had once smiled at his accolades now whispered. A man who had used charm to climb found himself climbing alone.
"Leave," I told him.
Cedar slumped into a chair. No one offered him sympathy. They watched with a strange hunger for truth. Someone took a photo. Someone else filmed him. Gossip blossomed, sharp and fast. The man who had thought he could command the room had become spectacle.
"You're done," Felix said quietly, professionally. "We will discuss this with HR."
Cedar's face crumpled. He knocked his head back and stared at the ceiling as if the building were swallowing him.
He begged. He accused. He cried. He tried to call people, but the company lobby now felt like a stage and everyone had tickets.
"People deserve better," I said. "And they deserve to know who they've been cheering for."
He left under a small cloud of murmurs. I watched him go. He looked smaller than the man I had loved.
Drake and I walked out together. He wrapped an arm around my waist and squeezed. "You were brave," he said.
"I was furious," I said. "But I'm not sure that's the same as brave."
"You did it for everyone," he said. "Not just for you."
That night, under the same moon that used to sleep over my kitchen window when I was a kid, Drake and I sat on the rooftop. The city breathed below us. He held my hand.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"I trust you right now," I said. "I trust that you aren't the man who breaks people and calls it progress."
He laughed and kissed my knuckle. "I won't be perfect," he warned. "I'll be clumsy, stubborn, loud. But I'll try."
"I don't want perfection," I said. "I want someone who sees me."
"I see you," he answered, looking at me as if I were the entire sky. "And I want you to keep dancing."
I thought of the way the stage lights had felt, the heat and the hum and the small fierce joy. I remembered the pair of hands at my back that had steadied me.
"I'll keep dancing," I promised.
We didn't fix everything in one night. We didn't pretend the past didn't sting. Cedar's fall had a ripple effect—some doors closed for him, and others opened for me. But there was a brightness to the next mornings: coffee that tasted like possibility, classes that made my feet ache in a good way, messages from people who said I'd inspired them.
Months later, at a small studio where Drake's team rehearsed, he pulled out a photo of the night we danced at the festival. He smiled that crooked grin.
"Remember this moon?" he asked.
I looked up at the small window where the moon peeked. It was still the same moon, silver and steady.
"This time," he said, "stay a little longer in the light."
I laughed, and the laugh turned into a dance step.
The End
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