Emo Night

The brewery lights are dialed down low, casting long shadows that cling to the cold steel tanks like regrets. Outside, maybe it's raining, maybe it's just Friday, but inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of hops and heartbreak. We're all here, clad in our various shades of black, maybe a faded band tee that barely survived the aughts. Some clutch pints of hazy IPA like security blankets, some nurse dark stouts that match the mood. It's a bittersweet ache, this nostalgia, served cold in a glass. We stand together, nursing our drinks and our memories, united by the ghosts of breakdowns past and the surprisingly decent pale ale. The night feels fragile, like a carefully constructed mixtape, ready to unravel but holding together just long enough.