a few more Miles than just the Moon and back (:

There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones you meet, exchange pleasantries with, and promptly forget the moment they leave the room—and then there are the ones who, for no logical reason at all, get stuck in your head like a poorly-written pop song. The kind that shouldn’t linger but does, that worms its way into your subconscious, popping up at odd moments—when you’re tying your shoelaces, when you’re waiting for the kettle to boil, when you’re halfway through a meeting pretending to care about synergy but are actually wondering what someone drinks on a Saturday night. People never really choose which category someone falls into, and if Miles had been given the choice, he probably would’ve filed Her under forgettable and called it a day.

Except he wasn’t given the choice.

It wasn’t love at first sight, (blows raspberries) or even admiration. Nothing theatrical, no fireworks, no grand epiphany. Just five seconds. A glance across a jazz bar, a half-empty drink, a laugh he could see but not hear, and the deeply inconvenient realization that his brain had decided to make a hobby out of wondering about Her. Which, frankly, was a bit of a nightmare. Miles had better things to do than analyze the drinking habits of a woman who probably hadn’t thought about him twice, or did she? How was one supposed to deduce that? And yet, here he was—three tables away, trying to look like he wasn’t stealing glances while simultaneously conducting a full psychological assessment over a Gin & Tonic with herbs and an offensively well-julienned cucumber. He wasn’t proud of it. But here we are.

******

This city, as always, was humming. Not loud, not restless, just breathing in its own way—the kind of city that never really stops, only slows down in pockets. The neon reflections in the rain-slicked tram tracks, the low murmur of conversations spilling out of sidewalk cafés, the distant sound of a busker's saxophone painting the night in a melody nobody asked for but somehow needed. In one of the tucked-away jazz bars off Collins Street, the kind where the lighting was warm and the world outside didn’t matter, She sat with a friend at a small round table looking out the street, unwinding from the kind of day that had been too long but not particularly memorable.

She was, as she usually was, composed but at ease, a presence that didn’t demand attention yet refused to be ignored. Her glass—Gin & Tonic, well, the day was too long, way more than she'd ever care to admit—rested casually in her hand as she and her friend leaned in over a meme on the phone. Something stupid. Something absurd. Something that made them laugh. The kind of laughter that wasn’t loud but felt loud, the kind that melted into this kinda night effortlessly.

Across the room, three tables away, Miles noticed.

He hadn’t meant to, but there she was. And suddenly, he wasn’t just in a jazz bar with his two friends—he was watching her in a jazz bar with hers. He could see her laughing, could see the way the corner of her mouth tilted when she was amused but not trying to be. But what pissed him off was that he couldn’t hear it. He wanted to know what her laughter sounded like. If it was sharp, sudden, full-bodied—or quiet, like something meant only for the people closest to her. He tapped his fingers lightly against his glass, the condensation cool against his skin, his Negroni untouched for a few extra seconds while his friends kept talking. He was here, but not really.

The first round of drinks landed at their table. One beer, one Whiskey Sour, one Negroni. Miles wasn’t sure why he always ordered a Negroni, except that somewhere along the way, it had become a thing. Something consistent, something settled. He lifted the glass to his lips, but his eyes were still watching her. And then, just as the second round made its way across the room, he noticed hers.

Gin & Tonic. Herbs. Cucumber.

His brain, unprompted, started breaking it down. What kind of person orders that? The herbs meant she liked subtlety, or maybe she liked control—flavor that didn’t come in all at once but built over time. The cucumber? Maybe she liked things crisp, fresh, not overly complicated. It wasn’t a drink that screamed for attention, but it was deliberate. She was deliberate. And suddenly, Miles found himself wanting to know what she ordered on other nights. Was this a weekday drink? A ritual? What about on bad days? What about on good ones? He hated that he was even thinking about it.

He looked away before she could notice, but it was already too late—she had.

And then she looked at him.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no slow-motion eye contact, no grand realization. Just a glance. A flicker of acknowledgment, like catching the reflection of something in a train window. But it was enough. Enough for her to notice the way he wasn’t talking, just listening—head slightly tilted toward his friend, nodding in the right places, present but not really. 

*

And for some godforsaken reason, she found herself wondering—did it ever get exhausting? Having to be the guy who listens, who never lets on when he’s bored, who has to be aware of every little thing just so people don’t think he’s an arrogant little prick?

For a moment, she didn’t register him as Miles. Not in the way most people wanted to know Miles. Not the Miles that existed in articles, the polished, successful 'genius' with a bright career and a gravity people seemed desperate to orbit. That version was easy to understand, easy to categorize. But she, for five seconds, wondered about the other version. Like not just another person in the bar, looking down at the table, seemingly lost in his friend’s words. Something else, something shifted in her mind. 

Does he always do that? Listen? Or pretend to listen? Does he feel debilitated? Having to exist in spaces where people always wanted something from you, where you have to pay attention, even when you didn’t want to, just to avoid seeming disinterested? It struck her as unfair. She had never really known him, but in this moment, she understood him more than she should have.

She tried to grasp in those fleeting five seconds, the one who, for all the attention thrown his way, seemed deeply accustomed to solitude. The one who probably curled up in bed at night, watching some unsettling documentary about serial killers, and halfway through, wondered if he had those tendencies himself—then pulled the blanket tighter like it could hide him from the thought. The one who let his head tilt slightly when he trusted someone, but never enough to ask for it. The one who liked getting flowers but never mentioned it, because people like him weren’t supposed to. The one who probably preferred handwritten notes over grand gestures, who liked the quiet act of giving more than the spectacle of it. The one who hated being admired publicly, but blushed for days over a private compliment whispered just to him.

The one who remembered birthdays, but forgot to reply to texts. Who let his food go cold because he got lost in a thought he didn’t even realize he was having. Who never interrupted people, even when he should, even when he had something better to say. The one who answered questions a second too late—not because he wasn’t paying attention, but because he was always running two conversations deep in his own head. The one who was good at eye contact but terrible at being looked at. Who wore confidence like a well-tailored suit but felt like a kid in borrowed clothes.

The one who had mastered the art of listening, but never quite knew what to do when someone listened back. The one who had never once asked for help, but would drop everything if someone else did. Who always remembered how people took their coffee, but never let anyone bring him one. The one who liked late-night drives with no destination, who liked the quiet hum of an engine more than the sound of his own voice.

And for some reason, she cared. Not in the way people wanted to care about Miles. Not in the way people wanted to own him, collect him, attach themselves to him like a status symbol. No, for five seconds, she cared about who he was when no one was looking.

And she wondered if he even knew.

*

She sipped her drink. He did the same.

Her second glass was halfway done now. Miles could see her trying to reach for the cheque. His pulse ticked up slightly, for reasons he didn’t want to analyze. She’s leaving. He knew it wasn’t his business. He knew he had no reason to care. But for the first time that evening, his thoughts weren’t about what She was like, but about how to make her stay.

Maybe a third drink. Maybe something else.

But how do you make someone stay when you’ve never even asked them to?

The jazz bar was the kind of place Melbs kept tucked in its sleeve like an old playing card—worn at the edges, familiar, dependable. The kind of place you ended up in without really planning to. It smelled like expensive liquor and the kind of blues that made people pretend they were thinking about something deeper than they actually were. A Wednesday night, slow but not empty, a bartender who looked like he knew too much, and a piano that had seen better days.

He was overthinking this. Overthinking her. But that realization didn’t make him stop.

And then in the corner, the live band fired up. It started as a song. One of those old jazz standards, the kind that felt like it had always been there—woven into the very fabric of dimly lit bars, clinking glasses, and the slow hum of a city that refused to sleep. The piano rolled in first, soft and knowing, followed by a voice that carried more history than sound. She noticed it first, the melody curling around the room like a lazy cigarette trail, settling into corners, into the pauses between conversations. Across the room, three tables away, Miles heard it too. Their eyes didn’t meet immediately, but at some point—somewhere between the second verse and the saxophone taking its turn—they both smiled. Not at each other. Not exactly. But in that way people do when something unsaid has just been understood. Like sharing a thought without needing to say it.

**

It starts like a whisper, a flicker, a pause,
Not a question, not a longing, just a glance without cause.
A face in a room, a name in the air,
A moment too small to be going anywhere.
But what is small if it lingers, if it stays?
If it takes up space in the quietest ways?

I never meant to notice, never meant to care,
Yet I watch as you shake loose a thought you won’t share.
A sigh between sentences, a head tilting low,
And I wonder—where do your silences go?
In all that noise, do you carve out a place,
To hide from the world, or just give it some space?

I know you like flowers but never say so,
Like compliments in corners where no one will know.
Like curling beneath blankets, a boy, not a name,
Like letting them praise you but hating the fame.
Like giving more than you’ll ever take,
Like pretending it’s easy when it’s all just fake.

So here we are, circling still,
A name in the air, a glance near the sill.
Not lovers, not strangers, not stories quite yet,
But something unfinished, something unread.
And maybe that’s enough, or maybe it’s not—
But curiosity walks further than reason ever thought.

And now I’m tracing, unraveling the thread,
Not of love, not of longing—just the shape of your head.
The way you listen, the way you retreat,
The way you pretend to be whole while living incomplete.
What is this pull, this slow-burning track?
A few more miles than just the moon and back.

If I take one step closer, will I understand?
Or will I be left with questions cupped in my hands?
Is it the knowing, or the not knowing that binds?
Is it the allure, or the space in our minds?
Is it the moment we meet, or the moments we lack?
A little more further than just the moon and back.

How much longer to reach you, how much further to bring yo back?

A little Miles further than just the moon and back.

How far can you step toward a shadow that pulls without hands, 

towards a presence that lingers in the attic's back?

About a few more Miles than just the moon and back. 

**

Years from now, if someone were to ask either of them about that night, neither would have the right words for it.

She might say it was just another evening in Melbs, another round of post-work drinks, another jazz tune rolling through the room like a warm, familiar tide. She might say she doesn’t remember the details—the exact shade of the lights, the sound of the rain hitting the pavement outside, the faint scent of citrus and gin lingering in her glass. And yet, if pressed, she’d admit there was one thing she remembered too well: the way someone—him—exhaled a thought before it could become a sentence. The way his fingers drummed absentmindedly against his glass. The way, for a few seconds, she wondered what it was like to be him, to be caught in the orbit of everyone yet belonging to no one.

Miles, on the other hand, would lie through his teeth. He would say it was a regular Wednesday, nothing special, just drinks with friends he barely listens to, in a bar he doesn’t care to remember. He’d shrug, dismiss it, maybe even make a joke about how Melbourne has too many damn jazz clubs anyway. But later—alone, in some quiet, unguarded moment—he’d find himself staring into his glass, thinking about how she laughed at something he would never know. How he almost figured out her drink order before she even touched the glass. How the night ended before he could ask her to her stay just a little longer.

And that’s the thing about moments like this—they never truly end. They linger in half-thoughts, in questions never asked, in the way a song from that night sneaks into the background of a café months later and suddenly, without warning, it’s there again. A memory that doesn’t fade, a presence that doesn’t leave.

Because some people, whether they mean to or not, stay with you.
A little longer.

A few more Miles than just the moon and back... (:

Pinterest-  a few more Miles than just the moon and back ♥︎

*******

Until next time,

S