[You there?]
Ding!
The phone chimed. Barry unlocked the screen and saw the message pop up.
It was ten o'clock at night.
He was at Kristen's house. Since Kristen's mother was often away, and her home was a classic, spacious mansion, it was much more convenient than Maria's place.
Lounging in a rocking chair, Barry found the most comfortable position to scroll on his phone.
When he was hungry, he ordered takeout. When he was thirsty, he drank sparkling water. Life felt back to normal again.
Sometimes, you just need to pause, take a breath, and rest for a while.
Just a few hours earlier, Barry had finished his "strategy plan."
He didn't expect Carrie to message him at this hour—with that classic opener: "You there?"
[Who's this?]
[Uh, it's Carrie White.]
[Oh, I remember now—the one who ran into me and ruined my Armani.]
[I'm really, really sorry.]
At the bottom of the chat, Carrie added a little sticker of a puppy bowing its head in apology.
Ding!
A transfer notification suddenly appeared on his screen.
A payment?
Barry didn't even tap to open it.
That collision—the one that broke his Armani—he planned to carry it with him for life. How could he just take the money and be done with it?
So he typed back instead:
[I accept your apology. But what you don't know is... I don't need money. Money to me is nothing more than a cold string of numbers.]
Unintentionally, Barry revealed his disdain for material wealth—and his words left Carrie unsure of how to respond.
If he didn't care about money, how was she supposed to make things right?
It was a question she had no experience answering.
The chat went quiet for a bit.
Barry's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. Carrie's typing bubble kept flickering on and off—typing, deleting, retyping.
Finally—ding!
[Mr. Oga, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?]
In her dimly lit room, Carrie lay on her side, nervously waiting for his reply. She also kept one ear on the hallway, afraid her mother might suddenly come by to check on her.
[Make it up to me? Maybe you don't need to. I did love those sunglasses—they'd been with me for years, gave me warmth, almost like an old friend. But now that they're gone, beyond repair, I have to let go. What I really valued was the meaning behind them—they were a gift from a child.]
[Broken things don't need our emotions. What matters is the memory. I'll keep it in my heart—and I believe that child would understand.]
[So, Carrie, don't hold onto that guilt. I was just a little too emotional before. Now, I've let it go.]
You've let it go, Carrie thought, but now I feel even guiltier.
That guilt dug into her chest like a thorn. She tossed and turned in bed, feeling like she'd done something truly awful.
God, Carrie, you're such a terrible person!
No—she had to do something. If she didn't, she'd never forgive herself.
[I really want to do something to make it right. Please—let me.]
Behind his screen, Barry's lips curved into a faint smile. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he changed the tone of the conversation.
[Carrie, do you know something? I'm actually a really lonely person. I long for love. For friendship. For a world where people care about each other—a beautiful world.]
[I've helped a lot of people and done things many didn't understand. Some admired me, treated me like a hero. Others despised me, called me a freak.]
[But deep down, I just want to be a whole person—to have everything a normal person has. Yet this loneliness inside me… it never goes away.]
[So, if it's okay with you—would you be my friend?]
Huh?
Friend? Me?
Carrie froze. His words hit something deep inside her.
She, too, was lonely—yearning to be complete, to have a normal social life, to stop being seen as a freak.
For a brief moment, she felt a strange connection—like she and Barry were the same kind of people.
But then she realized he seemed so much more put together than she was.
Could someone as confident and composed as Barry really feel lonely too?
Carrie was simple at heart. Sheltered by her mother her whole life, she understood emotions in the most straightforward way. Maybe he really was just missing a friend.
[Can I?]
[Don't answer a question with another question. If you're asking what I want to hear, it's this: "Of course I can—easily."]
"Of course I can, easily."
So that's the answer he wanted?
No wonder he was "Mr. Oga." He walked farther down the path of self-confidence and understanding than she ever had.
If she could be his friend—walk alongside him—maybe she'd learn to be more whole too.
And most importantly, she could ease the guilt weighing her down.
[Of course I can—easily.]
Carrie didn't quite understand why she said it, but once she did, a strange warmth bloomed inside her.
[Good. Thank you for being my friend, Carrie.]
[No—it's my honor. Thank you. You're my first real friend, Oga.]
[You don't have to call me Oga—we're friends now. Just call me Barry. It feels more natural.]
They kept chatting late into the night.
Under Barry's careful guidance, Carrie grew more and more convinced that he was an extraordinary person—
kind-hearted, always helping others, great with kids;
righteous, unafraid of evil, always ready to protect;
handsome, charming, and smooth with his words.
With every message, her mental image of Barry became more vivid—more perfect.
Then he shifted the topic back to the "child" he'd mentioned earlier.
[His name was Tommy—a chubby little guy who loved fried chicken. Sadly, he passed away in an accident a few months ago. Those sunglasses were his gift to me. Tomorrow's his memorial day. I'd like to visit his favorite fried chicken place with you, order a meal for him, as a way to remember him.]
[Poor kid. I hope he's at peace in heaven. I'll be there tomorrow. I want him to forgive me.]
[He will. As long as you order his favorite fried chicken, Tommy will forgive you. Then… see you tomorrow. Good night, Carrie.]
[I hope so too. Good night, Barry.]
—