As Chiaya made her way home, she tried to calculate how many drinks she'd had and over how many hours, but she couldn't quite manage it. She always had a knack for hiding how drunk she was, needing to stand firm as a mountain. She never wanted to bother anyone. So, even though she'd had more to drink than usual today, she needed to maintain that same image of Chiaya, unyielding as a mountain. Her soul had hardened to the point of a bodybuilder from saying, "No, I don't want help, thank you."
Every few weeks, she'd meet up with her college friends to catch up on each other's lives. For the past two years, Chiaya hadn't offered any updates beyond "I decided to learn tango" and "I gave up on learning tango." The answer to the inevitable question, "Is there someone in your life?" was always the same. And the next question was inevitable, too: "You haven't even had a fling?"
Chiaya was content with her life. Her job was a little boring, but she enjoyed spending time with the people she worked with. At home, cycling through games, shows, and comics hadn't started to feel suffocating yet.
Her apartment was a bit old, but it was in a nice location, the rent was reasonable, and it didn't strain her finances. She had no health issues.
Though she had lost her mother at a young age, it had been a long time, and she didn't feel much sorrow anymore. Her father was healthy, had remarried, and she had a stepbrother now. So, she didn't have to worry about him either.
She knew why her friends kept insisting she find someone. Of course, everyone wanted their friend to be even happier.
Or maybe, she thought, they were simply tired of her questions like, "If you had to choose between the strength of a bear or the speed of a hummingbird, which would you pick?" and just wanted to talk about more ordinary, everyday things for a change.
Once, just so she'd have a story to tell her friends, Chiaya met up with someone she'd matched with on a dating app. Of course, if the date had gone well, she would've wanted to see him again. But the guy might have been the least talkative person on Earth. After a while, sure that all her questions would get short answers, Chiaya stopped asking and spent the whole evening talking about her own empty troubles.
The last attempt at a question had been, "What kind of childhood did you have?" but after the man's answer was a simple "Good," Chiaya managed to control her anger. She was past the point of caring what the person across from her thought. She couldn't even recall how she'd transitioned from "Oh, I wish I had a dog, but I don't know how I'd leave it alone all day at home," to "My great-great-uncle came back from the war with an Egyptian girl, and they got married even though they didn't speak the same language." It was as if she had verbal diarrhea, spewing out everything that crossed her mind. For Chiaya, it was an entertaining evening, but the sole source of her amusement was herself.
Not knowing the right moment to end such a bad date, she decided that two hours would be enough—and never messaged the guy again.
The next day, she was mildly shocked when he said the night had been nice. To avoid wasting his time, she quickly wrote back, making it clear she hadn't been very impressed. Because if there was anything worse than troubling someone, it was wasting their time.
In the end, Chiaya had achieved her goal. For one evening, she had a date story to tell.
Naturally, tonight was no different. Chiaya asked some silly questions and argued over them, listened to her friends and gave little bits of commentary, like an old auntie who'd retired from life and relationships. She wasn't sure if that was something a twenty-seven-year-old should be doing.
It was past 3 a.m. When they were leaving, her friends offered to walk her home, saying it was too late. But she waved them off with her usual lines: "No really, I'm fine. The neighborhood's safe. No need to walk me. I'll message you when I get home—don't worry."
As she walked, she thought, How did I drink this much? Ugh, I really have no idea what I drank or how much. It just kept flowing during the conversation.
She was now facing what, in her opinion, was the worst possible outcome of drinking: nausea.
The streets were empty. Most of the house lights were off. As she walked, she saw only one couple—hand in hand, chatting and laughing as they strolled.
Chiaya loved seeing happy couples. Since her own circle was mostly made up of singles and people who had lost faith in love, it was a rare sight for her.
After the couple walked away, she decided to listen to some music, but she realised her earbuds had run out of battery, so she started humming softly to herself. The lyrics went something like:
"Where the nights have gone,
and why I keep walking alone,
but if there's still a bit of magic left in the sky—
won't you send me someone to call mine,
a lover to stand by my side?"
Her voice had risen slightly as she sang, starting from "Won't you send me…"
And then, suddenly, a rectangular light appeared on the sidewalk—shimmering with bright, blue-white waves.
Chiaya was speechless. She wasn't even sure she was breathing.
From within the glowing frame, a man stepped out—nearly two meters tall—placing one foot onto the sidewalk.
She was certain: just a second ago, there had been no one coming from the other direction.
Chiaya was in shock.
"You... you... weren't... how? You weren't there..." she stammered.
The man asked, "Are you okay?"
Chiaya didn't answer. Instead, she suddenly emptied the contents of her stomach.
He reached out to steady her—
—and the moment his hands touched her, Chiaya lost consciousness.