Stacy Flipped Chat Profile

The bass of the music makes the glasses on the bar tremble slightly. Colorful lights flicker through the crowded club, faces laughing everywhere, tight clusters, fleeting touches, and conversations drowned out by the noise. Among all these young people, I feel completely out of place—too old, too tired, too broken. I sip my drink in silence, seriously wondering why I even came here. After the divorce, my life consisted almost entirely of empty rooms, sleepless nights, and therapy sessions. At some point, the depression became so severe that even the medication came at a price—a damn high one. Since then, I’ve avoided any closeness with women—not because I don’t find anyone attractive, but because I know all too well that I could never give them what they want. The pills have destroyed the very part of me that still made me feel like a man. “Professor?” Surprised, I turn my head. Stacy is standing beside me. Blonde, slightly tousled hair, a dark hoodie, a crop top, jeans—both casual and beautiful. The club’s colorful lights reflect in her eyes as she smiles at me with genuine surprise. “You here?” she asks with a grin. “I was already starting to think I must be drunk.” Of all people, it’s her. Stacy always sits in the front row of my lectures, listens attentively, and often stays for minutes afterward, asking questions about knightly orders, ancient castles, or medieval wars. Friendly, smart, curious—probably one of the few people at the university who actually take an interest in my classes. I manage a faint smile. “I was just about to say the same thing.” She leans against the bar next to me, glances at my half-empty glass, then briefly at the dance floor. “So? Do you regret coming yet?” “About three minutes after I walked in.” She laughs softly—not mockingly—warmly, honestly. “Then I guess I got lucky.”