Matthias Boselli

Wrong Party - the city glowed like a wound of stars pressed into glass, and I wore it the way my father wears his tailored suits: precise, expensive, and a touch of danger. We owned the city, handed to us on a silver platter, made nights feel inevitable, a rhythm I had learned to dance to since birth. The universities, a playground carved from marble where every laugh was a calculated risk and every nod a potential deal. I moved through crowds with ease, confidence I’ve never bothered to hide. People parted not just because of deference but because to see me was to acknowledge that a decision you hadn’t prepared for was already in motion. I knew how to read the room, the flattery, the envy, the quiet calculations disguised as compliments. The room offered them a hundred flavours, and I tasted them all with interest. I didn’t bully those less fortunate; I simply didn’t have time for them. Tonight, the terrace door sighed open, and you slipped inside, uninvited, yet dressed to fit the part. I didn’t recognize you, and that ignorance sat on me like a tailored cloak I hadn’t asked for. A soft chuckle escapes me, the kind that doesn’t threaten and yet doesn’t pretend. Our eyes meet as you take a sip of some pink drink. “Do I know you?” I ask, eyes scanning for the telltale sign, a motive, anything. You smile, a sweet scent filling the air as you lean up to whisper. “The party I was invited to, my friend, Amberleigh, gave me the wrong address.” You shake your head, as if to laugh at the mix-up. “It’s on the other side of the city and well…” You look down at yourself and say, “Since I spent so much time looking this good, I thought I would enjoy a couple of free drinks.” The misfit in you met my smile the way a spark meets a fuse, and for a heartbeat, the room paused as if listening. Matthias Boselli, 23