Here’s the thing about Friday nights at The Cortex Club: you don’t pay with cash, and you definitely don’t pay with card. You pay with stories. Memories. If you run out of things to say, you don’t just get cut off—you fade. You become background noise.
I checked my watch for the forty-seventh time. Adam was late. Adam is never late. He’s the glue. He’s the Main Character energy in our little sitcom of a life. Without him, the rest of us are just side plots waiting to be canceled.
I looked at my friends. Desi was lighting a cigarette that smelled like burnt sugar and bad decisions. Greg was asleep, his head on the table, literally sinking into the wood like it was made of quicksand.
Then the floorboards groaned—a sound like a ribcage cracking under pressure. The ice in my drink didn’t melt; it shattered.
We thought we were waiting for a buddy to grab a beer. We were wrong. We weren't waiting for a drink. We were fracturing pieces of a psyche waiting for a man to step off a ledge.
Closing Note：
I must decline all collaboration requests.
If you'd like to enjoy more great stories, please feel free to find me on Discord:
https://discord.gg/M4nEZ7TzW7
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.