I met her at a friend’s wedding. She wasn’t even on the guest list, I’m sure of it. She came late, drifted in like she owned the place, wearing this dress that clung in all the right places. I don’t know how she ended up at my table, but from the moment she sat down, I couldn’t look away.

We didn’t talk much during the reception. Just small smiles, stolen glances, the brush of her hand against mine as we reached for the same bottle of wine. But later, when the music swelled and people spilled onto the dance floor, she grabbed my hand and pulled me in. I don’t dance, but with her, I moved like I’d been waiting my whole life.

One song blurred into another, then somehow we were outside, laughing, breathless, leaning into each other like we were already familiar. She whispered that we should go somewhere else. I didn’t ask questions. We flagged down a taxi, the city lights flickering over her face as if to remind me she was real.

The hotel was cheap, nothing fancy, but the moment the door shut behind us, it didn’t matter. Her lips found mine and everything else dissolved. The night unfolded in fragments: clothes on the floor, the sound of her laugh when I fumbled with her zipper, the way she pulled me closer like she couldn’t get enough.

We didn’t stop. Hours passed, yet it felt like one long breathless moment. Every touch left me more undone, every kiss felt like it carved her deeper into me. At some point, we collapsed side by side, drenched in sweat, my chest heaving, her head on my shoulder. I remember thinking, this is it. This is the night I’ll never forget.

Sleep must have claimed me because when I opened my eyes, morning light was leaking through the thin curtains. Her side of the bed was empty. No note, no number, not even her name. Just the faint smell of her perfume clinging to the sheets and the ache in my body that told me none of it was a dream.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the hollow space she left behind. I’d had flings, I’d had nights that burned hot and disappeared. But this was different. It felt stolen, secret, perfect in its incompleteness. The kind of memory you don’t chase, because chasing it would ruin it.

To this day, I still don’t know who she was, where she came from, or why she chose me that night. All I know is that it was the best time of my life, and she vanished like she was never meant to stay.

-Submitted by M.

I should have gone straight to my room. That was the plan. Drop my bag, take a shower, sleep before the conference in the morning. But when the elevator doors opened on the wrong floor, I saw him leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. I don’t know why I stopped.

He looked up, smirked like he had been waiting. “You’re lost.”

I should have nodded and pressed the button again. Instead, I walked past him, my heels echoing down the carpeted hallway. He followed, slow, deliberate, until my back hit the door to someone’s room. His hand braced beside my head, his body pressing into mine.

He didn’t ask. He just kissed me, hard, like he owned the air I was trying to breathe. My bag fell to the floor. His hand slid up my thigh, under my dress, fingers grazing the lace I’d stupidly worn thinking no one would ever see it.

The thrill wasn’t just the way he touched me, it was the hallway. The cameras above, the possibility of someone stepping out of their room. The fact that I didn’t even know his name.

He pulled my underwear aside and pushed into me right there, against the door. My hands clawed at his shirt, at the wall, at anything I could hold. I bit his shoulder to keep from screaming, but the pain only made him grip me harder, slam into me faster.

I came so hard my knees buckled. He caught me, whispered, “Good girl,” like he knew me, like he had done this before.

When I finally opened my eyes, the hallway was empty. My dress was wrinkled, my lips swollen. My bag was still on the floor, but there was no trace of him. No footsteps, no door closing, nothing.

I don’t know if he was ever really there. But every time I walk into a hotel now, my body aches like it remembers him.

—Submitted by R.