Chapter Three: Catching Feelings by Rosaline Saul
Tonight, he worked the room like a conductor orchestrating a
symphony of human desires. His fingers moved across the equipment effortlessly,
adjusting beats, layering rhythms, and controlling the flow of the night. It
was not just music that guided him—it was the subtle power of his otherworldly
influence. Each note he dropped, each transition he made, was not merely for
the sake of the sound; it was for the people.
Christopher could feel them, the connections that wanted to
happen, the unspoken sparks waiting to be ignited. It was his gift, his divine
purpose, to make sure those sparks found kindling in the hearts of those who
sought it. His eyes swept across the dance floor, where bodies moved in unison
to the driving beat of reggaeton. Couples danced close, their hands exploring
one another as if drawn by the music. It was, in a way. The dembow rhythm, the
steady, syncopated backbone of reggaeton, pounded through the speakers,
connecting people, allowing them to lose themselves and, sometimes, find each
other.
As the music swelled, Christopher shifted the energy. He
transitioned into a slower, sensual beat, something that curled around the room
like smoke, intoxicating. His heart swelled with pride as he watched the magic
unfold. There—a couple locked eyes for the first time. Another pair, dancing on
the edge of flirtation, suddenly moved closer, drawn in by the shift in the
song.
For him, it was all so painfully familiar. He had done this
for centuries—helped humans find love, built connections, mended hearts, yet he
had never known it himself. As he worked the music, weaving invisible threads
between those who danced, the old frustration bubbled up again. A yearning he
could not quite shake, a desire to know what these people felt—to be free to
experience the love he gave to others so easily.
He looked over at a young woman perched by the bar, eyeing a
man on the opposite side of the room. She glanced away quickly, as if
embarrassed by her own attraction. Christopher sensed the hesitation, the spark
just waiting to flare, and he leaned into the music. He built up the tempo,
letting the music guide her, letting the rhythm push her past her doubts. The
man noticed her now, drawn in by the beat, by the subtle influence of
Christopher’s power as Cupid.
It was always like this. Simple. Effortless. And yet, deeply
unsatisfying.
For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander as his fingers
still worked the console. He thought of the woman he had seen just days ago.
She had crossed his mind more than once since then, and that alone made him
uneasy. He was Cupid, the god of love—his job was to guide others, not become
entangled himself. This woman was different. There had been something about her
sadness that called to him, a wound in her heart so deep that even he had felt
it. Although it was foolish, he had wondered what it would be like to heal that
wound, not with divine intervention, but with something real, something human.
Christopher forced his attention back to the present. He
could not afford to be distracted. He had a job to do, and tonight, like every
other night, was about the people in front of him—not the woman who occupied
too much of his thoughts. The crowd surged with energy as he dropped the next
track, a reggaeton beat that seemed to set the room on fire. Bodies moved closer.
The air was thick with the unspoken language of desire. Couples paired off,
some clumsy and new, others with an ease that suggested a more intimate
familiarity. All of them were guided by him, whether they knew it or not.
And still, the ache gnawed at him.
The gods had warned him centuries ago of what happened when
immortals coveted human desires. Love was not meant for him, not in the way
humans experienced it. His role was to create it, to foster it, but never to
indulge. That was his curse of being Cupid.
He watched as the couple by the bar began to talk, their
connection forming as easily as breathing. A small smile tugged at his
lips—this was what he was meant for, yet the satisfaction was hollow. The more
he gave love to others, the more his own loneliness became a silent, unbearable
weight. The music surged, the room exploding with energy as he hit the climax
of the set, but inside, Christopher felt the familiar emptiness.
He stepped back for a moment, letting the music ride on
autopilot as his gaze wandered over the crowd. The human connections he
fostered were so pure, so raw, and yet they were not for him. He had accepted
that long ago—or at least he thought he had. Lately, it had become harder to
ignore. Being in Ibiza only amplified it. This place was full of passion, of
fleeting love, of endless possibilities, but Christopher stood on the outside,
always the orchestrator but never the participant.
His thoughts drifted back to the woman once again. He had
felt something stir when they crossed paths. Something he had never allowed
himself to feel before. She was vulnerable, bruised by love, and perhaps that’s
what drew him in—wanting to heal, to protect her in a way that was not purely
divine. It was dangerous, that curiosity. The gods would never allow it. His
heart was not his to give, not to her, not to anyone. Still, the pull remained.
The next track kicked in, and the room moved with it. The
dembow beat thudded steadily beneath his fingertips as Christopher forced
himself back into the present. Whatever the woman had awakened in him would
have to remain buried. He could never be more than what he was—the DJ spinning
love for others, the invisible hand that made hearts collide.
However, tonight, as the music soared and the crowd pulsed
with connection, the weight of his isolation felt heavier than ever.
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