Page 12 of Invisible Bars
“Take this… on the house.” Blu grinned like he’d just made a grand gesture.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t mind if I do.”
I stood, grabbing the ginger ale and the envelope he’d given me.
“T-Thank you, Blu.”
“The pleasure is all mine. You go on up and rest now. You deserve it. I’ll bring you up something to eat later, huh?”
Blu had chefs who cooked in the back, but I usually made my own meals—healthier, lighter stuff, just to keep my figure in check. But… on the weekends I gave myself a cheat day. So that plate he promised was already calling me.
“Th-that sounds good. I’ll be waiting.”
I’d only made it a few steps up the stairs when his voice called after me.
“Oh—and Naji?”
I turned halfway, pausing. “Yes?”
“If you do ever decide to leave, and the world gets too loud, come back here. This place will always be home.”
His words hit me somewhere soft, somewhere sacred. It reminded me of my grandmother, and the message she left behind on that recording, basically telling me the same thing.
I smiled. “T-Thank you.”
And that time, I meant more than just for the ginger ale.
Blu gave me one last grin—the one with more soul than teeth.
I climbed a few more steps, then slipped my key into the lock and opened the door that led to my bedroom.
It was quiet up there—always was. Blu’s room was downstairs, tucked away behind the kitchen, so technically, I was the only one with access to the entire upstairs. It had been that way since the day I moved in.
Blu Notes might’ve looked like just a bar to most folks—a lounge, a juke joint, depending on who you asked—but to me, it was home. Not just a place I stayed, but a place thatheldme, and I needed that… badly.
Three years prior, my modeling career had crumbled. One moment, I was strutting down catwalks in high heels, illuminated by the bright studio lights. The next, I found myself grappling with a daunting reality where I had no idea where I would lay my head at night.
In a city that never sleeps, past glories meant nothing; all that mattered was meeting the relentless demands of rent. I was determined not to squander my dwindling funds on some overpriced apartment just to be broke again six months later. So when a friend from my old agency told me about a room for rent at Blu Notes, I didn’t hesitate. I called Blu that same day.
He told me the older woman who lived upstairs had just moved into a nursing home, and the loft was vacant. I stoppedby, chatted with him for a good thirty minutes, and told him everything, starting with the fall from grace, the ugly way the industry chewed me up and spat me out,andabout my condition.
Blu didn’t flinch or offer me any pity. Instead, he simply nodded, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “The room is yours.” And it had been my sanctuary for those last three years—quiet, humble, and tucked away from the cacophony of the outside world, just the way I preferred it.
After entering, I put my things away and flopped down onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
“Another bo-boring weekend,” I muttered, staring up at the ceiling like it might engage in conversation with me.
I had the luxury of being off on the weekends—a rare gift that most people wished for—but truthfully, I hated it. Work provided me with structure, something to do, and somewhere to be. As for the weekends? They stretched out long and quiet, constantly reminding me of everything I didn’t have. I had no friends to invite for brunch, no family nearby to visit, and no plans. It was just me and that gnawing silence I never dared to acknowledge.
I had never admitted it to anyone, not even Blu, but I was lonely. This wasn’t the casual loneliness one feels when single or bored; it was a deeper, more persistent ache that clung to my skin and spiraled into my very bones.
And what do the lonely do on the weekend?
They read books, rewatch shows they’ve seen a dozen times—because they know how they end and that brings comfort—scroll past social media posts of people laughing, clinking glasses, hugging their mamas, or wrapped up in someone’s arms and pretend like it doesn’t sting.
I grabbed the remote and curled deeper into the comforter, reaching for routine—because routine didn’t judge my solitude,didn’t change with the whims of time, and didn’t walk away when things got tough.
Chapter Three
