Chapter 28: The Lookalike
The days blurred together in a way Kyle had never experienced before. Not like a hangover fog, where things went soft and hazy around the edges. More like someone had hit pause on his life and he was just. Waiting. For nothing.
He stopped showering every day. Stopped changing out of the same grey hoodie. He went to work because he had to, because rent didn't pay itself and Joaquin's trust fund only stretched so far, but the second his shift ended he was back in his room with the curtains drawn and the pillow pressed against his face.
The pillow didn't smell like Roha anymore. That was the worst part. He'd buried his face in it so many times, crying and breathing in, that eventually the scent just faded. Worn away by his own tears. Now it just smelled like regular pillow, and Kyle had nothing left.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster. There were twelve. He'd counted them forty-seven times.
No pictures. No texts. He'd checked his phone a hundred times, scrolling through his messages, looking for anything. But Roha's number was gone. Roha's phone had been the lamp, and the lamp was shattered on the beach, and there was nothing left of him anywhere.
A knock on the door made Kyle flinch.
"Kyle." Nell's voice came through the wood, muffled but warm. "You alive in there?"
He didn't answer. He knew she could hear him breathing, probably. The apartment was quiet enough.
"Kyle. Come on. Can I come in?"
He stared at the door for a long moment. Then he pushed himself up, swung his legs off the bed, and shuffled over. He unlocked the door and opened it just enough to see her face.
Nell looked at him. Really looked. Her sharp eyes took in the hoodie, the mess of hair, the puffy red rims around his eyes. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"Okay," she said softly. "That's what I thought."
She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped in. Joaquin was right behind her, wearing a bright yellow button-down that hurt Kyle's eyes, his usual grin dialed down to something gentler.
"Hey, bro." Joaquin's voice was careful. "We brought food."
Kyle looked at the paper bag in Joaquin's hand. The smell hit him, greasy and warm. Tacos. His stomach did something weird, half growl, half revolt.
"I'm not hungry," he said, and his voice came out rusty, like he hadn't used it in days. He probably hadn't.
"You're always hungry," Joaquin said. "That's like. Your thing."
"Not anymore."
Nell sat on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to her. Kyle hesitated, then sat. She didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at him with that quiet intensity she had.
"When's the last time you left this room?" she asked.
Kyle thought about it. Went to work yesterday. And the day before. The walk to the pizza shop, the walk back. Same route every time, head down, earbuds in.
"I leave," he said.
"For work," Nell said. "That doesn't count."
"It counts."
"Doesn't count." She leaned forward, her voice going soft. "Kyle. I know you're hurting. I know I don't have the full story, and I'm not gonna ask. But you can't just sit in here forever."
"Why not?" Kyle's voice cracked. "There's nothing out there for me."
Joaquin set the bag down on the desk and turned around, crossing his arms. "That's not true and you know it."
"Do I?"
"Bro." Joaquin's voice was firm. "You've got us. You've got a whole city full of people who think you're hilarious when you dance. You can't just throw that away."
Kyle looked at his hands. They were pale, slightly trembling. He hadn't noticed that before.
"I don't know how to be okay," he admitted. "I don't even know if I want to be."
Nell took his hand. Her grip was steady, warm. "You don't have to be okay tonight. You just have to leave this room for a few hours. That's it."
"Where would we even go?"
Joaquin's face lit up. "Pulse, dude. The club I've been talking about all week. It finally opened. Huge place, insane sound system. You remember Pulse, right?"
"Pulse," Kyle repeated.
"Yeah, man." Joaquin came closer, crouching in front of him. "One night. We dance, we drink, we come home. What's the worst that could happen?"
Kyle looked at Nell. She nodded, her eyes soft.
"Please, Kyle," she said softly. "Just try."
The room was quiet. The ceiling had twelve cracks. He'd counted them forty-seven times.
"Fine," Kyle said. "One hour."
Joaquin pumped his fist. "Yes. Okay. Get dressed. We're leaving in twenty."
Kyle stood up slowly, like his bones were heavier than they used to be. He looked at the closet, at the clothes he hadn't touched in a week. Everything in there felt like it belonged to a different person. A happier one.
"I don't know what to wear," he said, and it came out smaller than he meant.
Nell stood up, already heading for the closet. "That's what I'm here for, babe."
Kyle let himself get dressed, let Nell pick out a dark red button-down that hugged his shoulders and black jeans that felt like armor. He let Joaquin drag him out the door, down the stairs, into the night air. The walk was loud with Joaquin's chatter, Nell's occasional laugh, and Kyle's silence.
The club was everything Kyle remembered from the last time they came with Roha. The bass hit Kyle in the chest the second they walked in, vibrating through his ribs like a second heartbeat. Neon lights swept across the crowd in violet and electric blue, turning faces into shifting portraits of color and shadow.
They found a spot near the dance floor. Joaquin was already moving, pulled into the rhythm like he belonged there. Nell grabbed Kyle's hand and tugged.
"Come on. You can't just stand there."
Kyle let himself be pulled. The beat was loud, loud enough to drown out the thoughts for a moment. He moved stiffly at first, feeling every motion awkward, like he'd forgotten how to dance. But the bass kept thumping, and Nell kept moving alongside him, and Joaquin was somewhere behind them yelling something incoherent and joyous.
Slowly, like ice melting, Kyle started to feel it.
Not happy. Not even close. But something. A crack in the numbness. A tiny spark of movement that didn't feel like going through the motions.
He didn't know how long they danced. The music blurred together, song after song, the lights washing over him. His body remembered what to do even when his brain was still stuck on a beach, watching someone dissolve into light.
"I need a drink," Kyle said, his voice hoarse from shouting over the music.
Nell nodded, pointing toward the bar. "I'll hold our spot."
Kyle pushed through the crowd, weaving between bodies, past the dance floor and toward the glowing bar at the edge of the room. The bartender was a blur of motion, pouring shots and mixing drinks with practiced ease. Kyle leaned against the counter, waiting to catch their eye.
And then he saw him.
A man sitting at the far end of the bar. Dark hair, slightly tousled. A sharp profile outlined against the neon glow. Grey eyes that caught the light and held it, flecked with gold.
Kyle's heart stopped. It's Roha.
Kyle's legs moved before his brain caught up. He shoved through the crowd, bumping shoulders, muttering half-assed apologies, his eyes locked on the man at the bar like a magnet.
Halfway there, he stopped.
What if it's not him? The thought hit him like a wall. What if it's just some guy with the same dark hair, the same jaw, the same impossible grey eyes? The city was full of people who looked like other people. That happened all the time. It happened every day.
And what if it is him? What if Roha's free now, living his new life, and he doesn't remember Kyle at all? Joaquin didn't remember Roha. Neither did Nell. What if Roha's memories were also erased?
Kyle's heart was doing something ugly in his chest. Part of him wanted to turn around, go back to Nell, go back to dancing and pretending he hadn't seen anything. But his feet wouldn't move that way. They only moved forward.
He crossed the last few feet on autopilot. The man was nursing a drink, something amber and slow, his back half to Kyle. Up close, the resemblance was even worse. The same sharp angle of the jaw. The same way he held his shoulders.
Kyle reached out. His hand trembled, and he almost pulled it back. Then he tapped the man's shoulder.
The man turned.
And Kyle's breath caught in his throat.
Grey eyes. Gold flecks catching the neon. That familiar curve of his mouth, softer now, more relaxed. He looked at Kyle with a polite curiosity, nothing more. No spark of recognition. No tilt of the head like he was waiting for something. Just a stranger, being looked at by another stranger.
"Umm... hi." Kyle's voice came out small and shaky. "Sorry. I just... um... I'm Kyle."
He waited. He looked for something, anything. A flicker. A sign. The man's smile stayed easy, polite, a little confused.
The man looked him over, a slow once-over that Kyle couldn't read. His eyes moved from Kyle's face down to his shirt and back up. A beat passed. Two.
"Hi Kyle. I'm Roman. It's nice to meet you."
His voice hit Kyle like a punch to the sternum. Same timbre. Same low, unhurried cadence. Same way of shaping words like he was choosing each one carefully.
"I, um." Kyle swallowed. His mouth was dry, and his heart was hammering so loud he was sure the man could hear it. "Sorry, this is really random. But would you maybe want to dance? With me?"
He braced for the weirded-out look. The polite decline. The oh god, this stranger's nuts energy.
Roman's smile widened, slow and easy. "Yeah, sure."
Kyle blinked. "Wait. Really?"
"Really." Roman slid off the stool, setting his glass down. His hand brushed Kyle's arm as he stepped past, and Kyle felt it, that same electric warmth he'd spent a week crying into a pillow over.