Last Saturday, gathered at a club by an invitation from a common friend, it was the first time we met.
At first, I thought he was cute, but I kept my distance. I am an introvert and so I stayed quiet, observing rather than engaging. It was only later, when alcohol softened my shyness, that I began to loosen.
He asked for my Instagram. I gave it to him without hesitation. He got drunk. We had fun, we danced—at least that much I remember clearly, though the night itself blurs in my memory. I remember laughter. I remember flirting. I remember our hands finding each other in passing moments, fingers briefly locked as if by accident that neither of us corrected.
And then, somehow, it led to us kissing in the CR, hidden from the rest of the crowd.
At 4 AM, when it was time to go home, I hugged him and told him I liked him. He did not say it back. He only looked at me and asked, “Really?”
I invited him to stay the night in my place. In my bed, we kissed again in the quiet. Nothing more.
Before leaving the next morning, he asked me to book a Grab for him. I did, gladly. Just before the ride arrived, he kissed me one last time and brushed my hair as if memorizing the moment.
Afterward, we exchanged a few messages on Instagram. Sober this time, we spoke, in fragments, about what had happened. I told him I enjoyed it. When I asked if he regretted anything, he said he doesn’t believe in regret—only in learning from what happens. I'm not sure I understood what he meant.
And now I find myself thinking about him still: the way he kissed me, the way the night unfolded like something half-dreamt, half-real.
I do not know what he feels. Only what I feel, and the uncertainty that follows it.
Do I pack up the courage and ask him out or wait for him to make the first move?