Disco | Eivii's Holojournal Entry #2
Holojournal Entry: Private | Not transmitted | Voice-to-text recording archived
Timestamp: 0420 CST
Location: Nar Shaddaa – Level 47
Security Note: Unencrypted. Unsent.
Flagged content markers: Emotional destabilization. Jealousy. Imagery loop.
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He went dancing.
That’s the first thing the slicer said—
not with a wince, not with pity—
just amusement.
Like it was funny.
Like it was a punchline.
He. Went. Dancing.
Do you know how long it’s been
since he moved
like he wasn’t being hunted?
They say she spun him
like a chandelier.
The music was loud—
he smiled,
touched her waist
and didn’t flinch.
She laughed at something he said—
and he didn’t ruin it.
That’s how it always goes, isn’t it?
I’m the one who bleeds for him.
Someone else gets the slow songs
and spotlights.
I don’t know what really happened
at Club Retro.
Just that her fur was orange
and the lights were low.
Just that he left with her.
Just that she got
the version of him
I never earned.
But the brain is a cruel,
talented thing.
I see it clearly.
He dances with her
like gravity’s optional.
Like there’s sun in her smile
and not a single scar on her.
Like she doesn’t flinch
when people get too close.
He lets her lead.
Lets her laugh.
Lets her touch him like it’s safe.
She’s all soft hips
and glowing skin
and freedom.
And me?
I’m whatever he ran from.
She probably moaned his name,
said it like it was prayer—
not consequence.
Bit his lip.
Scratched his back.
Told him he was good.
No armor.
No ghosts.
Just heat
and hands
and lips
and—
He probably smiled
when she pulled him under.
Not a smirk.
Not the one he gives right before someone dies.
A real one.
The kind I haven’t seen since—
No. Doesn’t matter.
They made a memory
in lights
and sweat
and breath.
Meanwhile,
I’m here
running simulations
I never got to star in.
I could’ve been her.
I could’ve worn something prettier.
Said all the right things.
Bit my tongue
instead of my pride.
Danced with him
instead of detonating.
But I didn’t.
I yelled.
I raged.
I scarred him.
I made a scene.
And she made him feel alive.
So now I’m picturing things
I wasn’t invited to.
Imagining the sound
of his breath in her ear.
The pulse of the music
synced with the grind of her hips.
It’s not that I wanted to be
the one in his arms.
It’s that I thought
I already was.
Let them have their glitter.
Their sweat.
Their night.
Let her have him—
for now.
I’ll wear the silence
better than she ever wore him.
And when the music cuts out
and the lights go cold,
I’ll be waiting in the dark.
Next time,
he won’t get to dance away from me.
* * *
End recording.
