My laptop screen, set on the cluttered desk in the room, was open on BookWriting.

The "Publish" button flashed green, waiting for the final click.

Amanda was practically glued to me, sitting on the chair next to mine, her body leaning forward, her eyes shining with uncontainable enthusiasm.

"Come on, come on, come on, click!" she urged me, giving me a light shoulder bump. "You don't want to keep all this just for yourself, do you?"

I hesitated, my hand steady on the trackpad.

"Maybe it's better not to."

"But why?" she retorted, incredulous. "You had the guts to show up at an interview dressed as a woman, risking your career, and now you're backing out over four chapters on a writers' site? Seriously, Matthias?"

She wasn't wrong.

Thinking back, it was ridiculous.

But those chapters weren't just words: they were pieces of me. Desires I'd never confessed out loud, fantasies I'd kept locked in my head for years. Publishing them meant opening them to the world, to the judgment of strangers who could find them pathetic, too explicit, or simply... weird.

Amanda didn't wait any longer.

"Move over."

She ordered, grabbing the laptop. She clicked "Publish" before I could protest.

"There, done." She announced triumphantly, turning the screen toward me like a trophy. "You'll thank me later, princess."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help smiling.

"Anyway, no one's gonna pay attention to it, I tell you."

"In that case you'll blame me." She replied.

I checked the time in the screen corner: almost 10:00 p.m.

That Sunday evening we were invited by Samy to the Spotlight Lounge for one of his absolute diva nights, a show promising fiery lipsyncs, killer outfits, and energy that would make the stage shake.

We wouldn't go just me, Amanda, and Trick; David had joined us too, turning the evening into a real group outing.

Right then we were waiting for Trick, who'd been getting ready in the bathroom for what seemed like an eternity.

Amanda checked her phone.

"What time do we need to pick up Samy?"

"He said to go straight to Bella Vita around 10:25." I replied, slipping on a red open shirt over the simple tee. "From what he told me, they extended his shift."

"Oh god!" Amanda exclaimed. "Think how furious he'll be. He'll hit the stage with the energy of a typhoon."

Trick appeared at the room threshold, finally ready. Dark jeans, black shirt with sleeves rolled up highlighting his gym arms, and a veil of strong cologne, the one he used when he wanted to impress.

"Here I am." He announced, with a half-embarrassed smile. "We can go."

I sized him up from head to toe.

"But look how sexy we are tonight for a drag club."

Trick blushed slightly, running a hand through his buzzed hair.

"But no, I put on normal stuff..."

"Wanna hook up with some drag queen maybe?" Amanda teased.

Trick widened his eyes. "Oh god, you think these clothes give that idea?"

David passed in the hallway right then, car keys in hand, amused expression. "Relax, if anyone hits on you I'll say you're my man."

"Don't say that, David!" Trick protested. "Then they'll believe it for real and at the gym they'll rag on me for months."

We all burst out laughing, except Trick who'd turned red as a pepper.

We knew full well Trick had spent half an hour choosing the outfit just to impress Amanda.

Who knows if one day it would work.

David jingled the keys.

"So let's go, before your friend skins us."

I turned off the laptop with a touch: the screen faded slowly, the light retreating. I picked up the phone from the desk and slipped it into my jeans back pocket.

We left the apartment together. The door closed behind us, leaving quiet inside and opening the evening.

We descended the stairs amid chatter and laughs, steps bouncing lightly in the narrow landing. On the ground floor we crossed Mr. Smith coming back with two grocery bags hanging from his gnarled hands; he gave us a distracted nod as he climbed the first steps. We returned with a quick "good evening" and pushed the heavy door. It opened with a familiar creak, letting in a gust of fresh air.

David led us to his black Ford F-150 pickup, parked a little further along the sidewalk. It was simple, with some scratches on the bed and that patina of dust and resin that never fully went away, sign of the construction work he carried with him even when not working.

David climbed into the driver's seat, Trick jumped into the front seat with an enthusiastic yelp. Amanda and I settled in the back, doors closing with a soft thud.

David turned the key: the engine woke with a deep rumble, a vibration spreading from the seats to the vertebrae.

We left.

"Samy's waiting for us straight at Bella Vita," I reminded him.

"Okay," he confirmed with a nod, merging into Brooklyn's light traffic.

I huddled against the window, my forehead cool on the glass fogged by my breath, and grabbed the phone. Went straight to the Harrington, Locke & Partners site. The junior associate ad was still there, identical to how I'd seen it Friday, with that clause that had made me risk everything.

Actually, on a Sunday who had time to remove a listing?

Amanda leaned toward me, elbow on the seat, face lit by the intermittent glow of streetlights flashing outside the window.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?" she asked, with that tone that already knew the answer.

"About nothing," I replied, shrugging with fake nonchalance.

But she didn't buy it for a second.

"You're thinking back to that guy from The Vault, right?" she insisted, narrowing her eyes. "Don't deny it, you have that infinite loop face, the one you get when you mull over the scene in mental HD."

"Actually, I'm not thinking about anything," I tried to retort, but the lie sounded weak even to me.

Amanda raised an eyebrow, then gave up with a sigh and leaned back, crossing her arms.

"Okay, have it your way. But you know the 'I'm fine' filter doesn't work with me."

She didn't insist further. She just shot me a sideways glance, a penetrating look that needed no words to be understood: she knew every barrier of mine, every diversion I tried with a shrug, every silence I used to hide what weighed on me. She knew how to read me on the fly, as she always had. And, as always, she'd wait, with that quiet, stubborn patience for me to give in first, to drop the mask and say out loud what tormented me inside.

Then Amanda took her phone from her jacket pocket, unlocked it with a quick thumb tap, and held it tilted for a moment, like she was searching for something on the screen.

"Look, Matt," she said, turning it toward me.

The lit display showed the BookWriting page, the site where we'd uploaded the first chapters of my novel. The title in bold, the cover we'd chosen together, and below, the counter: ten reads.

"Ten people have already read them," she announced.

I observed the numbers on the screen: ten views. No comments, no likes, but that small counter seemed a first tangible step, silent proof that those words, maybe, were reaching someone out there.

I thought back to that same Sunday morning: I'd thrown myself on the bed with the laptop on my knees, the sheet still warm and rumpled from sleep. I'd decided to write a new story, two lawyers as protagonists: fierce rivals in court, sworn enemies before the judge's bench, with that tension mounting slow and inexorable between one sharp objection and another. Gazes lingering beyond proper, hands brushing by chance on open files, silences weighing more than any argument. And then, when every resistance crumbled, their first time: a hotel room wrapped in soft dimness, warm lights brushing skin, breaths shattering against each other, bodies meeting with naturalness, as if they'd waited for that moment forever.

Every line was a memory masked as invention, a fragment of truth hidden between the words.

While writing, a lesson from the creative writing course at university resurfaced. The professor, Noah Jones, slightly unkempt gray beard, thick glasses, and slightly hoarse voice, as if he'd just put out a cigarette before entering the classroom, repeated the same phrase with almost resigned weariness:

"Write what you know. Make it all real. If you don't believe it first, no one will."

Well, if that night with Andrew was real, and it was, all too much, then my chapters were truer than I was ready to admit.

The memory faded slowly, like smoke dissolving in the air, while David slowed gently and pulled over with a rustle of tires on asphalt.

We were in front of Bella Vita.

The restaurant's warm lights filtered through the windows, like a whispered invitation guaranteeing refuge and pleasure. The evening air was already saturated with that enveloping, unmistakable aroma: garlic sizzling softly in the pan, ripe tomato simmering low, fresh basil snapped at the last moment, a veil of singed rosemary, and that deep, almost meaty note of freshly grated Parmesan rising from the open kitchens and spreading on the sidewalk like an irresistible call.

It was an invisible embrace, the kind that catches you by the throat before you even cross the threshold, that evokes home even if you've never set foot in Italy.

Trick pointed with a chin nod.

"There he is."

Samy burst out of the restaurant like an explosion of light and movement, already fully transformed into a drag queen: the flaming red wig, full and voluminous, danced wildly with every step like a cascade of living fire under the streetlights. The glittering silver dress, seemed woven from fragments of fallen stars, capturing and bouncing every street glow in a thousand luminous shards that made him appear almost unreal. The sky-high heels clicked on the sidewalk with a decisive rhythm, like plot twists announcing his arrival before he was even seen.

He carried a black duffel slung over his shoulder, probably stuffed with work clothes, spare makeup, and everything needed to switch from one life to another in a few minutes. The makeup was bold enough: winged black eyeliner stretching toward the temples like crow wings, extra-long dramatic fake lashes casting exaggerated shadows on his cheeks, lips painted a fiery red almost aggressive, that seemed to shout "look at me."

David flashed the headlights, a couple quick and decisive taps.

Samy noticed right away. He raised his arms to the sky in a theatrical gesture, and ran toward us shouting a "Finally!" that came through loud and clear even through the closed windows.

He stopped beside the pickup, leaned toward the driver's side window, and widened his eyes seeing David at the wheel.

"Wow, tonight we have real men at my show!" he exclaimed, placing a hand on his hip with a consummate diva pose. "And what men!"

Then he pointed at Trick with a mischievous smile, eyes shining under the exaggerated fake lashes.

"Gorgeous Patrick, do me a huge favor? Get out and sit in the back. With all this outfit I could never squeeze in with those two princesses," he said, indicating me and Amanda. "I'd risk ruining the artwork."

Trick blushed, but got out without protesting, the door creaking slightly.

"Sure..."

"Good boy, honey," Samy chirped, climbing into his front seat with surprising agility. The glittering silver dress rustled with every movement, the high wig brushing the roof, the duffel set in his lap like a bulky trophy.

Trick climbed back in and squeezed into the tight space next to Amanda. The pickup wasn't designed for three adults in the back seat: we ended up squished, my shoulder pressed against the cold window glass, Amanda's leg brushing his thigh.

Trick tried to make himself small, hands rigid on his knees, cheeks on fire, but he didn't say a word. He breathed softly, like afraid to take up too much space.

Samy turned slightly, winking at Amanda through the rearview mirror.

"But you two don't look bad together, huh?"

Amanda, if she could have, would have punched him right then.

Trick lowered his eyes, cheeks even more flushed, but a shy little smile curved his lips, almost involuntary.

David drove off.

"Ah, what a shitty day," Samy blurted, adjusting his wig with a precise gesture.

"I'd calculated everything to the millimeter to get to Spotlight Lounge right on time for the show, and that dickhead boss of mine comes out with: 'Samuele, could you do an extra hour?'" He shook his head, incredulous. "I accepted only for the money, otherwise I'd have shoved that extra hour straight up his ass with a pink bow on top and told him fuck off, so at least it looked like an early Christmas gift."

He huffed, a sound mixing rage and laughter in one explosion.

"But imagine if I tell him to his face. That guy fires me on the spot and then sends me the bill for the trouble, with interest. 'Dear Samuele, for the time lost putting up with you: 250 dollars + taxes.' Filthy bastard."

We all burst out laughing.

The traffic was thinning, and David managed to park the pickup in a corner near the Spotlight Lounge in less than ten minutes.

The club was already alive: purple and pink neon lights pulsing on the facade, bass-heavy music filtering muffled from the street, people in line with glittery outfits and excited smiles lighting the sidewalk.

Samy opened the door with a prima donna gesture.

"Now excuse me if I get out first, but a diva has to prep properly backstage."

He blew us a flying kiss.

"See you inside, darlings."

We watched him disappear into the crowd, the wig waving like a living flame above the heads.

Amanda shook her head, laughing. "I see him too sober tonight."

"I wouldn't bet on it," I replied. "You know when he hits the stage he'll bring the house down."

We entered the Spotlight Lounge.