• CATCHING FEELINGS: CHAPTER THREE

    The music throbbed through the club like a relentless pulse, alive with an electric energy that thickened the air, heavy with anticipation. Ibiza’s nightlife was always breathtaking, chaotic, a perfect storm of sound, light, and raw heat. It was in this frenetic energy that Christopher felt most at home, even if that home was a carefully constructed lie. To everyone in the room, he was simply another DJ, a master behind the decks, transforming tracks into magic but he knew better. He was not just a DJ, he was Cupid, the god of love in disguise.

    Tonight, he worked the room like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of human desires. His fingers danced across the equipment, effortless, adjusting beats, layering rhythms, and controlling the night's flow. It was not merely music that guided him, it was the subtle power of his otherworldly influence. Each note he dropped, each transition he made, served a purpose beyond sound alone. It was for love.

    Christopher could feel the connections yearning to happen, the unspoken sparks waiting to ignite. It was his gift, his divine purpose, to ensure 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 pulse of reggaeton. Couples danced close, their hands exploring one another as if drawn by the music and in a way, they were. The dembow rhythm, the steady, syncopated backbone of reggaeton, pounded through the speakers, connecting people, allowing them to lose themselves and, sometimes, to find each other.

    As the music swelled, Christopher shifted the energy. He transitioned into a slower, sensual beat, something that curled through the room like smoke. His heart swelled with a familiar, bittersweet pride as he watched the magic unfold. There, a couple locked eyes for the very first time. Another pair, dancing on the edge of flirtation, suddenly moved closer, drawn in by the subtle shift in the song.

    For him, it was all so agonizingly familiar. He had done this for centuries. He had helped humans find love, forged connections, mended hearts, yet he had never known it himself. As he wove invisible threads between those who danced, the old frustration bubbled up again. A yearning he could not quite shake, a desperate desire to know what these people felt. To be free to experience the very love he bestowed upon others so effortlessly.

    He glanced toward a young woman perched by the bar, her gaze lingering on a man across the room. She quickly looked away, as if embarrassed by her own attraction. Christopher sensed her hesitation, the spark just waiting to flare, and he leaned into the music. He built up the tempo, letting the rhythm guide her, pushing 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.

    For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander, even as his fingers instinctively 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 unsettled him. He was Cupid, the god of love. His job was to guide others, not to become entangled himself. Yet, 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, a god, had felt it. Though 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 renewed energy as he dropped the next track—a reggaeton beat that seemed to set the room ablaze. Bodies moved closer. The air grew 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.

    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 the eternal curse of being Cupid.

    Long ago, he had been Eros, the God of Desire, child of Aphrodite and Chaos, an immortal born of longing itself. The ancient world had worshipped him, painted his likeness on urns and temple walls, praying for his golden arrows to strike true. However, immortality came with conditions. The Olympians feared what might happen if Eros, the very spark of love, ever kindled a flame for himself. When he dared to ask what it might feel like to love, not as a god, but as a man, they stripped him of his name, his wings, and his place among the divine.

    He became Cupid. Unseen, eternal, condemned to walk among mortals and stir hearts with unseen hands, never to feel the warmth of love returned. To fall in love with a mortal woman would not only shatter the laws of Olympus, but it would also destroy him.

    The punishment was brutally clear. If he gave in to that most human of temptations, he would be erased. Not killed but forgotten. His name, his essence, his mark on history would vanish like smoke in the wind. The mortals he had once touched would no longer remember the subtle flutter of his influence. He would be unmade.

    And the mortal he loved? She would be left with a hollow ache she could not explain, haunted by the absence of something beautiful, something true. Something she would never even remember having.

    That was the price. That was the warning.

    And still, despite everything, Christopher—Cupid—was beginning to wonder if a single moment of love, truly felt and freely given, might be worth the fall.

    He watched as the couple by the bar began to talk, their connection forming as easily as breathing. A small, sad smile tugged at his lips. This was what he was meant for, yet the satisfaction felt 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 swept 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. It was something he had never allowed himself to feel before. She was vulnerable, bruised by love, and perhaps that was what drew him in. He wanted to heal, to protect her in a way that was not purely divine. That curiosity was dangerous. The gods would never allow it. His heart was not his to give, not to her, not to anyone.

    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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