"I've been asked to play a set tonight," says Imara, bursting into my bedroom with a flurry of clothes and energy. She takes me in, sitting in the bed with the journal in my lap and a pen in my hand, and rolls her eyes. "You're looking broodier than usual."

"I still can't get anything down," I reply, huffing out my frustration and trying not to defenestrate either the notebook or myself. The only marks on this page, its predecessors angrily torn out and discarded, are crossings-out and dots from where I'd hoped the pen would supply its own thoughts.

She doesn't seem too bothered by it. If she is, she never shows it – Imara is made of momentum, she does not like to slow down."Set, tonight. Coming, or going to try to drown yourself in the ocean again?"

Despite her provocation, she knows I have not yet dared to go back, salty legs and an irregular heartbeat becoming some sort of feverish memory. The charge of the encounter still plagues me, but maybe it is because I have not spoken to strangers like that for a while. I never quite learnt to be mysterious in Arabic.

I was punished for my behaviour yesterday evening, anyway; subjected to an arduous phone call from my parents that culminated in Imara deciding something needs to change, or else I'd be shipped back home and swaddled in bubble wrap like I am one of my grandparents' prized antiques.

Breaking the pensive silence, Imara sighs. "You're supposed to be gradually reintroduced to normal life. I... spoke to Mónica, and she thought it would be good for you to come."

Great. Now they're conspiring. It's not even been a week.

"Why are you speaking to Mónica?" My annoyance is loud and clear, but so is Imara's answer. We linger in a stalemate. I eventually ask her what time we will be leaving.

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The bass hits before we even step inside, vibrating up through the soles of the shoes Imara lent me, pounding into my chest. The door swings open, the bouncer grinning as Imara greets him with a kiss on the cheek, and heat rushes out – sweat, spilled drinks, and a mixture of perfume that makes my head swim. Not a bad office, I suppose, if you're into the sound of people making constant bad decisions while bopping their heads to questionable remixes.

Imara strides in without hesitation, the thrill of the chaos buzzing in her bones as she leads me to the VIP section. The gap between us grows slightly as I hesitate in the doorway, but she is nearly out of my sight and so I have no choice but to force myself to step inside.

We're in the same nightclub that we came to on my first night here. Imara is a popular and resident DJ. The crowd tonight, she tells me before she stalks off to the backstage area to prepare for her set, is here for her. More or less.

"Now, schmooze with your people," she says as her smirk fades, gesturing to the sleaze surrounding us in the 'classier' section of the club. "Maybe you can compare signet rings?"

I raise my eyebrows at her, because that is hardly a self-aware thing for her to say, but she is gone before I get to comment, leaving me stranded in a sea of people who prefer to pay twice as much to achieve the same aim. However, with little else to do, I resort to muscle memory and find myself committing our natural crime.

"Gin tonic, porfa," I shout at the bartender, hoping he can hear me over the booth of raucous laughter to my right. He flashes me a smile and I sit on one of the barstools.

A moment later, the bartender slides my drink over to me, a movement fluid and practiced. I wrap my fingers around the cool glass, hoping it'll settle the unsettled feeling creeping up my spine. The bar is becoming more crowded, but I don't mind: I get to be anonymous here. It's nice to be no one.

The music pulses through the club, songs that everyone knows, signs that this set is coming to an end, but I try to tune out everything except the buzz of the gin in my bloodstream, taking enough sips to feel the effect of not maintaining an alcohol tolerance.

Two girls approach the bar and take up the space next to me. They're laughing about something, a casual, confident energy radiating off them. I can hear the echoes of that dreaded group – they must have come to collect another round of drinks. One of them leans against the counter, scanning the room with a disinterested gaze.

"I'm telling you, this set tonight is going to be good anyway," says the taller of the two, dark hair almost absorbing the colours of the strobe lighting. Her voice is smooth, precise. And her Spanish isn't quite right. "Imara knows how to work a crowd."

Her friend – smaller, younger – shrugs, tapping her fingers on the bar as she waits for the bartender's attention. "She's a good DJ. Terrible reputation though." There's a hint of something in her tone, a mix of admiration and disdain.

"You didn't seem to mind last week," replies the other girl, full of insinuation. She is not given an answer, her friend turning around to order after that.

I make two deductions because of this: they aren't drunk, and one of them has fallen victim to my sister's mission to bed the entirety of Barcelona. Only the former interests me.

Why on earth would you subject yourself to this environment sober?

A jug of water is presented to them with a knowing look from the bartender, and, unfortunately, one of the girls catches me staring. Her eyes are bright blue and unwaveringly piercing, intrigue plastered across her face. Her friend bites her lip, a thought sprouting in her mind that will render her Sherlock bloody Holmes.

I give them a little wave, which shocks them enough to prompt their departure.

The girls return to their booth, and I instinctively glance over, following the long, toned legs as they take a seat and call for their friends to take shots of water. Cheers ring out and heads begin to pop up, and as they get excited, so does the rest of the club. It seems that Imara is about to start her set.

Noise rings out, thuds from drums and screeches from throats and the clinking of glasses, and I finish my drink to soothe my ears, to soothe the beating of my heart. Sounds like these should be what I missed; the energy, the music, the open doors to a different dimension.

I order another drink.

Imara shouts into the microphone: "are you pleased to see me?!" Everyone unites in their agreement.

The second the music shifts, it's like the world changes its axis. Imara's voice, amplified by the crowd's anticipation, swells like a wave ready to crash. The beat, deep and relentless, pushes into my chest – this set isn't like her last – and I lose track of what is happening around me. The bass takes over my surroundings, making my pulse a part of the rhythm. The air in the club thickens with energy, with bodies pressed together in some primal need to be closer, as if the sound can fill up the space between them.

I blink a few times. My hands are warm, the glass forgotten in my grip as I watch even the VIP section begin to move, synchronising with the beat of the people on the floor below us. The two girls I'd seen earlier are laughing again, their heads tilted back in a kind of carefree exhilaration, as if they're not even aware of their own energy.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, someone else leaves their booth, reluctantly pulled into the dancing by grappling hands and teasing shouts of encouragement. A new layer of focus settles over me as my gaze traces the movements. The taller girl from earlier, her dark hair cascading down her back, circles her arms around the waist of another member of the group, pressing her face into her shorter counterpart's neck, and this woman, the smaller woman, begins to encourage the group's shouting even more.

"¡Venga, capi!"

The others echo the sentiment, swaying and turning and pulling the woman in until she is churned out on the other side. My side.

And suddenly, everything stops. The floor tilts. The room expands and contracts as the world narrows, the lights flashing in time with the pounding of the beat. I can't look away.

Neither can she.

The stranger from the beach – the one I hadn't expected to see again. The one whose presence had felt like a challenge, a whisper, an invitation. She's staring, even as she's pulled back into the middle of the dancefloor now, her eyes locked onto mine through the chaos of bodies. It's like a storm surges between us, too charged, too loud, too close.

I don't know if she recognises me, but the way she stares is enough to make me feel like I have her attention regardless. The entire club seems to vanish as I accept this gift, this call – music, heat, faces of strangers all disappearing, smudging into the background. It's only her and me. It's disorientating. It's electric.

She doesn't yet avert her gaze.

I try to swallow, but the air is thick and dry and my throat tightens. Her lips curl, just the smallest hint of a smile, and my body stutters, tensing, a string pulled far too tightly.

Then, just as quickly as the moment began, the crowd moves. A ripple of bodies surges in every direction, someone bumping into me, someone else laughing, and just like that, the club swallows her back into the sea of people. But not before she turns her head slightly, just enough to let me know she hasn't forgotten.

It's only when she disappears entirely that I realise I have stopped breathing.

I inhale sharply, the nose of the club rushing back in like the tide after a storm, a deafening roar in my ears. My fingers tighten around the glass, but it's shaking now, the drink sloshing around in a way I don't feel like controlling. I'm not sure if I feel grounded or like I've been swept away.

I look around for her again, but the space is suddenly crowded with bodies, unfamiliar faces moving in time to the music, drunk and oblivious. Imara's set crescendos, the bass now dominating every corner of the room, but it's not just sound – it's a presence, a force that can't be ignored. I feel it in my ribs, in the low hum of my chest, and I wonder if she feels it too.

My drink spills as I shakily set it down, but I have to leave.

The bartender tells me where the smoking area is.

Burning legs take me into the cool, night air, although it's packed here, too. I pull out the elastic from my hair, undoing the french plait I'd worn it in, pretending that is what is at fault for my thrashing headache. A few people are watching me, dotted around in circles of plumes and billows, cigarettes mixing with the smell of weed and the occasional fruitiness of an ambitious quitter.

A hand appears in my face, fingers curling in a beckoning motion. A woman, friendly looking with hazy eyes, asks if I'd like to bum a smoke. Her friends are equally as inviting.

I hesitate for a moment, the weight of the music still thrumming through my chest, the lingering taste of gin and the headache of that encounter still fresh in my mind. The air outside feels too quiet now, too still.

I give a small nod and accept the lit cigarette from the woman's hand, taking a deep drag to steady my nerves. The smoke unfurls around me, blending with the sharp tang of the night air. I thank them through a cough.

"No problem," says the instigator. Her friends nudge her shoulder. "We're playing a game. Wanna join?" I shrug. "What brings you here: fan of Imara, too impatient for Friday night, or Barça Femení?"

I think for a moment. And a moment more. They look at me expectantly, but I find no answer and so I laugh and shake my head. My silence is taken in their stride, and I am allowed to observe their conversation until I am left with a cancerous stub.

Two hours slip by unnoticed as I sit quietly in the haze of smoke and idle chatter, nursing a drink one of the girls gets for me. The conversations ebb and flow, punctuated by laughter and the occasional snatch of gossip. A few people come and go, pulling me momentarily from my thoughts, but I remain an observer, still not quite ready to leave. The music inside the club pulses faintly from the depths of the building, reminding me of the chaos I've distanced myself from. I try to focus on the burn of my latest cigarette, but the moment passes too quickly and I find myself lost in my own world again.

Then, the air shifts. Imara emerges from the door, stepping into the smoking area with her usual unapologetic confidence. Her eyes find me instantly, and she offers a smirk, one that suggests she already knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Time to go," she says, her voice cutting through the excited silence the smokers have fallen into upon seeing their legendary DJ in their midst. I stand up like a good dog, my body still feeling like it belongs to someone else, and she continues, "we're getting one last drink in the VIP before heading out. You ready to stop sulking?" There's a teasing glint in her eyes, but she does not make an effort to hide the concern behind it.

I bid farewell to this evening's cigarette supplier and provider of distraction, and follow her back inside. Her hand grips my wrist protectively as she manoeuvres her way through congratulators and well-wishers.

"Did you listen to any part of my set?" she asks, reminiscent of the girl who craved my approval and attention, trailing after me and my friends at school as though I would want to talk to her.

"These people love you," I reply.

She wilts, invisibly, but she doesn't pursue me for my own answer. Instead, we are back at the VIP bar and her attention shifts to the girl who'd gotten her table water earlier. "Jana," Imara calls out, leaning in closer to her, voice low and smooth. I roll my eyes – the drink was not to talk to me, but to capture her next victim. Or... recurring victim, I suppose. "So... you sure you don't want to come back to mine?" she says with that mischievous glint in her eye. The bartender and I share the same look of amusement as he hands us our drinks.

Of course she's doing this.

I take a slow slip of my final G&T, trying to ignore the predictable scene unfolding in front of me. I'm not going to get into a taxi with Imara and her fucking hookup.

Jana, however, laughs – genuine, amused, but apologetic. "Sorry, can't," she says, her smile still wide but laced with the kind of amiable humour that only good people seem to have. "Got training early tomorrow. We only came to see you. I haven't had a drop of alcohol."

Imara raises a brow, not bothered in the slightest, though her lips press into a mock pout. "This exhibit is interactive, though," she quips, trying to recover the moment.

I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Jana's grin only windens at her response. "Next time," she says, a true promise but a clear end to tonight's possibilities. I wonder what kind of training requires that level of dedication.

I catch Imara's smirk faltering for half a second as her hookup walks away – she doesn't like being denied what she wants – but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same easygoing confidence. She's unfazed, really, and I am made, yet again, the subject of her attention.

"So..." she says to me, the same playfulness in her tone, hyped on adrenaline and probably the lines of coke she must have done before her set, "what do you think about me finding you someone to fuck?"

I stare at her, the buzz of the night still coursing through my veins, but beneath it, the exhaustion starts to settle in. I do not have the stamina we once shared. "Will they write my journal for me?" I ask, an eyebrow raised.

She blinks, surprised at my deadpan, before the familiar pout pulls at her lips. "No, but I could probably get them to be interesting. Someone you'd like."

I take another slow slip of my gin. I can almost swear I hear her trying to suppress a laugh, but it's only when I make eye contact again that I fully shut her down.

"Then absolutely not," I say, voice light but final.

She grins, not convinced by my celibacy – she has no reason to be – but she accepts defeat. But, ever the one in need of the final word, she does gently say, "maybe it will help."

notes: 

imara is my icon