half prose, half pulse

[paz404]

The Snail Phenomenon

Kim Minji x m!reader

17K words

angst

You call it research. That's the word you've been using in your head for the past three weeks, ever since the idea first took root. Research. It sounds legitimate. Clinical. Like you're a journalist, an anthropologist, someone with a purpose beyond your own desperate need to feel something real.

You've been standing on this corner for twenty minutes, watching shapes move through the rain-slicked dark. People emerge from doorways and vanish into taxis. The city breathes around you, indifferent to your crisis of conscience. And you're starting to think that maybe this whole thing - this plan, this night, this pathetic attempt at authenticity - is exactly the kind of intellectual masturbation your workshop professors used to warn against.

You've published three short stories. Decent literary magazines. The kind with small circulations and respectful reviews. They called your prose "clean" and "technically proficient." They said you had "promise." But they all noted the same flaw, buried in the compliments like a splinter: your work lacked a certain veracity. That word. You've turned it over in your mind a thousand times, and every time it feels like an indictment. Your characters feel hollow because you're hollow. You're writing about shadows of experiences you've never had, emotions you've only observed from a comfortable distance.

You want to write about suffering. Real suffering. The kind that leaves scars on people's souls, that changes the way they move through the world. But how can you when your own life has been nothing but a series of comfortable, middle-class disappointments? Breakups that hurt but healed. Rejections that stung but didn't destroy. You're a fraud trying to write truth, and the gap between what you know and what you want to say feels unbridgeable.

So tonight, you're doing something about it. Tonight, you've decided to stop theorizing and start living. Or at least, start witnessing. You're going to be a tourist in someone else's hell, and you're going to hope that somewhere in the wreckage, you'll find the veracity you've been missing.

The address leads you to a door that looks like any other: just a plain, dark-green slab of wood with a tarnished brass number. No red light, no neon sign promising pleasure. It’s almost disappointingly discreet. You push it open into a narrow hallway that smells of damp carpet and cigarettes. At a small wooden desk sits a woman old enough to be your grandmother. She doesn’t look up from the crossword puzzle she’s working on, just keeps worrying a string of cheap plastic rosary beads with one hand while the other holds a pen.

She finally lifts her gaze, and it feels like being weighed and measured.

“Yeah? What.”

“I, uh. I’m looking for a girl.”

She clicks her pen. “They’re all girls. Specifics.”

“Twenties. Someone… smart. Who can talk.”

Her lips twitch into something that isn’t a smile. It’s more like a muscle spasm of mild amusement. She looks you over again, taking in your soaked jacket and your too-earnest face. You, the writer, trying to play a role you haven't even written yet. She seems to understand the whole pathetic story in a single glance. Without another word, she picks up a small desk phone, mutters a single word into it you can’t make out, and hangs up. She slides a small, cold, brass key across the desk. Room 7.

You walk up the stairs in silence, simply absorbing the atmosphere of the place, which is quieter than you expected. You find the door, and the key feels slick with sweat in your hand. You have to try twice to get it into the lock. For a second, you think about turning back, about just running out into the cleansing rain and forgetting this whole stupid, pretentious idea. But you don’t. You turn the key, push the door open, and step inside.

The room is dim, lit only by a small bedside lamp with a heavy shade that casts a cone of amber light. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, to see past the haze of your own anxiety. And then you see her. She’s not waiting for you, not posed or expectant. She’s curled up on the edge of the bed, propped against the headboard, wearing a simple black slip dress that leaves her shoulders and the long, elegant lines of her legs bare. She’s reading a paperback, her focus so absolute you feel like an intruder. Her hair is as black as night, long and well-groomed, or perhaps that's just its natural appearance, framing a face that stops your breath. It’s the kind of face that’s so perfectly symmetrical it’s almost unsettling. Wide, intelligent eyes; a nose that is delicate and majestic (in the sense of belonging to a mystical royal figure), full lips that are completely relaxed as she reads. It’s her. You know that face. You spent four years trying not to stare at it in calculus.

She looks up, her eyes adjusting to the shape of you standing in the doorway, and her expression shifts from neutral concentration to a flicker of confusion, then to a sudden shock of recognition.

“Holy shit.”

Her voice is the same: low, a little husky. Particularly appealing to your ears and personal tastes. It’s the voice that answered a question about derivatives once and made the entire room feel stupid. You just stand there, mute.

“Kim Minji.”

The name comes out of you like a ghost. She closes the book, without bothering to bookmark the page, she's definitely the type who remembers the exact number.

“I gotta say,” she begins, her gaze sweeping over you, a little sarcastic, a little amused. “Of all the people I thought might walk through that door tonight… you weren't even on the list. Not in the top million.”

Her dress is short, riding high on her thighs as she uncurls her legs to sit facing you. It’s a simple garment, but on her, it looks like high fashion. It accentuates the flawless skin of her collarbones, the gentle slope of her shoulders. You finally find your own voice, though it sounds thin and foreign.

“What… what are you doing here?”

She laughs, but it's far from meaning she's happy. “What does it look like I’m doing? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes! I mean, yeah, obvious. But not—I didn’t mean you look obvious. Like a prostitute. You don’t. At all. It’s just the context, right? The room, the… everything. That’s the only reason it’s obvious. It’s a contextual obviousness. Not a personal one.”

She just watches the train wreck, a genuine giggle escaping her lips this time.

“Relax,” she says. She unfolds herself from the bed slowly. In three steps, she’s closed the space between you, and the air crackles with a proximity you are profoundly unequipped to handle. She takes your hand. Her skin is warm, her grip surprisingly firm. “It’s unexpected, seeing you here. But I’m not gonna judge. Not really in a position to, am I?”

She leads you to the bed and gently pushes you down to sit on the edge. The mattress gives beneath you. Before you can process it, she turns and settles herself onto your lap, facing you, her legs bracketing one of yours. Her scent is subtle, something like clean linen, maybe a hint of green tea. And there’s a subtle smell of something that must be cigarette smoke, but you don't have time for aromatic guessing right now. Then she leans in, her face close to yours.

“So. What’s on the menu for tonight?” she asks. “Let’s get the ground rules out of the way. It’s a set price for the hour. No anal. No kissing on the mouth. No creampies, so don’t even think about trying to pull the condom off. If you’re into it, I’ve got a strap-on in the drawer. You seem like the type who might like that, having a girl take charge.”

Remembering: this is Kim Minji, who sat two rows ahead of you, who you once saw read a Dostoevsky novel during a pep rally. She’s looking at you with an unreadable, seductive calm, talking about strap-ons, and for one terrifying, electric second, your body betrays your brain and you actually consider it.

She must see the conflict warring across your face, because a flicker of a real smile touches her lips. “But maybe… for a familiar face, I’d make an exception on the kissing rule.”

It’s the fabricated intimacy that snaps you out of your stupor. You find a strength you didn’t know you had, place your hands on the thin, silky fabric at her waist, and gently, respectfully, lift her off your lap, setting her down beside you on the bed. Her expression shifts instantly from seductive professional to utterly, completely confused.

“I… I appreciate the offer,” you stammer, feeling the heat in your own cheeks. “You’re… very convincing. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She just stares at you, brows knitting together. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

You take a breath. Here it is. The pitch. “I’m writing a book. A novel. It’s about a girl, like you. I mean, not like you you, but in this line of work. It’s about her perspective on the city, on people. And I… I need it to be real. I can’t just make it all up. The details, the feeling of it. It would be a lie. So I came here for research.”

Minji’s face remains blank for a long second. Then she throws her head back and laughs. Not a giggle this time, but a full, throaty, cynical laugh. It’s a laugh that says she’s heard every stupid line in the book, and this one is a new classic.

“Research,” she repeats. “Holy shit. That’s a new one. You want to buy my time to… what? Ask me about my tragic backstory so you can write it down and win a fucking award?”

“No, that’s not it. I want to pay you for your time. The same rate. We just… talk. I ask questions. You tell me what you think about things. Anything. Philosophy, the news, politics. I want an authentic perspective.”

She looks at you, her eyes narrowed, dissecting your earnest, stupid face. “So you don’t want to fuck my body, you want to fuck my head instead. You want to mine my life for ‘authenticity.’ You know what that is? It’s the same transaction, just wrapped up in a pretty, intellectual bow. People who read your book will get to feel worldly and empathetic for a few hours, dipping their toes into a life like this from the safety of their fucking IKEA armchair, and you get to be the brilliant artist who brought it to them. It’s still voyeurism. It’s just… what? Torture porn for literary majors.”

“That’s not fair,” you argue. “Art can build empathy. A good story can make someone feel something real, understand a life they’d otherwise just ignore or judge.”

“Oh, spare me the ‘power of art’ speech. Every writer thinks their intentions are pure. Every director shooting a movie about war thinks he’s an anti-war activist. At the end of the day, you’re still selling a product, and the product is someone else’s pain. My pain. You’re just another john, but you want to buy my misery instead of my pussy.”

She’s right, or at least, she’s not wrong. The ethical ground beneath you has turned to quicksand. You can only be honest.

“You have every right to say no. And you’re probably right about some of it. But I am asking. And I will pay.”

She studies you for a long time, the silence stretching out. She looks at your hands, your shoes, your face. Finally, a long, slow sigh escapes her. She seems to deflate, the fight going out of her.

“Getting paid to talk is better than getting a knee injury from some asshole who thinks he’s a porn star,” she says flatly. “Okay. Fine. I’ll be your little research project. But there are rules. Non-negotiable.”

“Okay. What are they?”

She holds up a finger. “One. You don’t ask about my past. How I got here, my family, where I’m from. All of that is a locked box. You don’t get the key.” She holds up a second finger. “Two. Your character is not me. You can use ideas, feelings, observations. You cannot use my life. You are not writing my biography.” A third finger joins the others. “Three. You are not here to save me. I don’t need a hero. Don’t get any ideas about rescuing the poor, fallen woman. It’s pathetic, and I’ll walk the second you try it.” She pauses, and her gaze becomes incredibly intense. “And last… you can’t fall in love with me.”

She lets that one hang in the air.

“I’m serious,” she adds. “Don’t. It’s a bad idea for everyone. This is a job. So if you think you can handle all that… maybe we have a deal.”

You look at the rules she’s laid out. They seem like walls, high and thick. They’re all acceptable, a fair price for what you’re asking. Except the last one. The last one feels different. It feels less like a rule and more like a premonition. But you’ve come this far. You push the doubt down.

“I accept.”

She extends a hand, cool and formal.

“Deal, writer boy.”

You take it. Her handshake is firm, sealing the strange, impossible contract.

“So when do we start?” you ask, your hand falling away from hers.

“How about now?” she says, standing up and grabbing a simple, worn coat from a hook on the door. “There’s a 24-hour diner three blocks from here. I’m starving.” She looks at you. “You pay the house for my hour, then you can buy me a cheeseburger.”

It’s an order. You nod, pulling your wallet out. You agree. She slings a small bag over her shoulder, and together, you walk out of the room, leaving the bed and the amber lamp behind.

—

The rain follows you. It has been raining for days now, and it still doesn't seem close to stopping. Minji doesn't seem bothered by the rain. You walk side-by-side under the fractured glow of the streetlights, a weird silence stretching between you. It’s her who breaks it.

“So why, though?” she asks, not looking at you, just staring ahead at the wet, black asphalt. “Of all the miserable little stories in this miserable fucking city, why this one? Why mine?”

You knew the question was coming. You just didn’t have a good answer for it. “I don’t really know. It feels… necessary. I just want to write something that matters, I guess.” You shove your hands in your pockets. “I’ve published a few things. Short stories. The reviews are always polite. They say I’m technically proficient, that the prose is clean.” You pause. “But they all say the same thing. ‘Lacks a certain veracity.’ That was the phrase one of them used. A nice way of saying my characters feel like bullshit.”

Minji is quiet for a moment, absorbing that. “So you came looking for veracity in a whorehouse.” It doesn't sound like a question. It’s a diagnosis.

The diner is an oasis in this deluge. It smells of old coffee, sizzling bacon grease, and the clean scent of bleach. You both slide into a booth with cracked red vinyl seats, the big window next to you a canvas of streaming, distorted city lights. You memorize everything. This could be an interesting setting for a story. A moment later, a girl your age approaches, wiping the table with a damp cloth. Her face is cherubic, with large, luminous eyes and a spray of light freckles across her nose that you can see even in the harsh lighting. She moves with an exhausted, end-of-shift efficiency. She gives Minji a tired but genuine smile.

“Hey, Minji. The usual?”

“Hey, Dani. Yeah, the usual,” Minji says, then gestures to you with her thumb. “This is… a customer.”

The waitress glances at you. Her friendly expression tightens just a fraction. It’s a look you’re starting to get used to: suspicion. “A customer?”

“Not the normal kind,” Minji clarifies.

Danielle looks from you to Minji and back again, her eyes narrowing. “Right. Better I don’t know what a ‘different’ customer is, I’m guessing.”

“You’re guessing right,” Minji says, picking up a menu she has no intention of reading. “It’s disgusting, really. He’s going to sit here and ask me a bunch of intimate questions and pretend he cares about the answers.”

Danielle’s gaze on you hardens. “Are you a reporter?”

“Worse,” Minji deadpans. “He’s a writer.” She rattles off her order without looking up. “Cheeseburger deluxe, extra pickles, fries, a Coke, and a slice of the apple pie.” She closes the menu and pushes it toward you. “He’ll have… I don’t know. Sad artist food.”

You just look at Danielle. “Just a coffee, please. And a slice of the pie.”

Danielle jots it down, gives you one last wary look, and walks away. “Dani’s a good kid,” Minji says quietly, watching her go. “Goes to city college for chemistry during the day, works the graveyard shift here.”

“Can we, uh, get started?”

Minji leans back against the vinyl, crossing her arms. A look of profound boredom settles onto her perfect features. “Knock yourself out, writer boy. Your meter’s running.”

You pull a small, dog-eared notebook and a pen from your jacket pocket. You feel like a caricature of yourself. You click the pen. “Okay. So. On an average night, how many clients do you see?”

“Depends,” she says, her eyes drifting to the kitchen pass-through. “Tuesday? Maybe one or two. Friday? Could be six, seven. Depends on the weather. Depends if there’s a convention in town.”

“And what’s the… financial arrangement? Do you get a percentage? Do you have a weekly quota?”

“Fifty percent to the house. No quota. It’s a freelance gig with really shitty benefits.”

Her answers are rote, mechanical. She’s giving you the FAQ page. You press on, feeling increasingly like a tax auditor. “What are the biggest dangers? Is it the clients, or…?”

“The biggest danger is boredom,” she says. “Clients are mostly just sad. Or angry. Or scared. The dangerous ones you learn to spot. The real danger is dying of boredom while some guy tells you about his wife for the fifth time.”

Danielle arrives with the drinks and your pie. A few minutes later, she returns with Minji’s order. It’s a glorious, greasy platter of food. A huge burger dripping with cheese, a mountain of golden fries. Minji’s entire demeanor changes. She picks up the burger with both hands, squishes it down, and takes a huge bite. A little bit of ketchup escapes onto her thumb, and she licks it off without a second thought.

You clear your throat and glance at your list of stupid questions.

“Do you get… regulars?”

She pops a fry into her mouth and chews thoughtfully before answering. “A few.”

“And what’s that like? Is it… easier? Knowing them?”

“It’s less paperwork,” she says, not elaborating.

You press on, feeling the gears of your own ineptitude grinding. “What’s the weirdest request you’ve ever gotten?”

She stops chewing and looks at you with an expression of profound pity. “Sorry. All my anecdotes are proprietary.”

This isn't going as you expected. You look down at your notepad, at the list of questions you spent hours compiling. What safety precautions do you take? How do you separate the work from your personal life? Have you ever felt a real connection with a client? They all seem impossibly shallow now, like trying to understand the ocean by asking it to fill out a survey. You let the pen rest on the page. You’ve run out of questions that don’t make you feel like a complete asshole.

So you just watch her instead. You watch her finish the fries, then pull the slice of apple pie closer. She eats it with a different kind of focus - slower, more deliberate, savoring each bite. You notice things. A tiny, silver-white scar that cuts through her left eyebrow, almost invisible unless the light hits it just right. The way she tucks a strand of her black hair behind her ear, a gesture that is entirely her own. You start writing again, but you don't look at her while you do it. The pen scratches quietly across the paper.

She never looks at her phone. Not once.

There’s a small, faded bruise on her inner wrist, shaped like a thumbprint.

She has a habit of tapping her front teeth with her thumbnail when she’s thinking.

You’re so lost in the cataloging of these details, these tiny fragments of a real person, that you don’t notice she’s finished her pie and is just watching you, her chin resting in her hand.

“What the hell are you writing over there? You’re filling up pages. My life isn’t that interesting, I promise you.”

You look up, startled. You feel caught, like a spy. You close the notebook and slide it to the side of the table, next to the salt shaker.

“It’s nothing. Just small notes.” This whole approach was a mistake. You came in like a scientist, all clipboards and questions, when you should have just come in like a person. You decide to try that now. “Look, I’m sorry. This isn't working.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your admission of failure. “Oh yeah? Your ‘research’ hitting a wall?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “My questions are garbage. They’re not what I actually want to know.” You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. You look at her, not as a subject, but as the girl who used to sit two rows ahead of you in calculus. “Forget the book for a second. Let’s just talk.”

She eyes you with deep suspicion, her guard instantly back up. “Talk about what? Don’t think this is your chance to sneak in questions about my ‘tragic past’.”

“No. Not about that. Just… what do you like to do? You know. When you’re not working. When you’re not here. What do you do for fun?”

She stares at you, her mouth slightly agape. She seems to be searching for the angle, the trick, the hidden question beneath the question. Finding none, she’s left adrift in the unfamiliar territory of a genuine, human inquiry. She blinks, looks out the rain-streaked window for a long moment, watching the traffic lights change through the window, turning the raindrops on the glass from red to green to amber. and then turns back to you.

“I read,” she says, simply and directly.

Of course. You remember it instantly. In the back of every class, during every lunch break, she always had a book. A thick paperback with a worn spine, held in one hand while the other doodled in the margins of a notebook.

“You always did,” you say. “Even in high school.”

“I’ve been reading since I was a kid,” she says with a small shrug. “It’s the only thing that’s never felt like a waste of time.”

“Favorite books?” you ask, leaning forward, genuinely curious now. The notebook lies forgotten on the table.

“The list changes. Every week, maybe. I’ve been on a Murakami kick lately. Kafka on the Shore, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I know he’s problematic, the way he writes women sometimes… but god, the atmosphere. The feeling. It gets under your skin.” She takes a sip of her water. “Before that, I finished a biography on Foucault.”

You blink, surprised. “Foucault? That’s… heavy reading for a Tuesday night.”

“Says the guy who wants to write a magnum opus about suffering,” she shoots back, a playful glint in her eye. “I was interested in his ideas about power. How it’s not just some guy in a castle telling you what to do. It’s in everything. Every structure, every conversation.” She gestures with her fork between the two of you. “Like this. You, the observer, asking questions. Me, the subject, giving answers. You think you’re just gathering information, but you’re creating a narrative of power where you get to define me.”

“The Panopticon,” you say. “The prisoner who knows he might be being watched at any moment, so he polices his own behavior.”

“Exactly,” she says, pointing the fork at you. “And you’re the man in the central tower. You think you’re seeing the ‘real’ me, but you’re only seeing the version of me that knows you’re watching.”

You just stare at her. The intelligence radiating from her is more captivating than her beauty. “You’re amazing,” you confess. “I thought you were amazing in high school, too.”

The admission makes her pause. A faint blush rises on her cheeks. “I remember you,” she says softly. “You were always in the library. The quiet, smart, slightly mysterious one in the corner. Always scribbling in a notebook.”

“I always wanted to talk to you,” you say.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” you laugh. “You were… you. You had that big group of friends, you were always laughing. You were confident. Intimidating. It was way too much for a kid like me.”

“God, was that what it looked like?” She giggles, a veil of sadness momentarily crossing her face. “Everything feels so complicated when you’re a teenager. If you had just come over and said hi, I probably would have been thrilled. You seemed nice.” She looks down at her hands, tracing the rim of her water glass. “The image you had of me… it was completely wrong. I wasn’t like that at all. Not on the inside.”

“For what it’s worth. You still look amazing to me.”

Her eyes snap up to meet yours. She’s flustered, and trying to hide her shyness, she forces a cynical little smile. “Even though I’m a prostitute?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. Don’t be naive. It’s the first and last thing people see. It’s a brand. You know what men think when they hear it. You know what other women think. It matters.”

“Will you ever… change professions?” The question is out before you can vet it for stupidity.

“Do you think I want to be doing this?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Changing jobs doesn’t change the brand. It’s not that simple.” She sighs, clearly done with this line of conversation. She pushes her empty plate away. “Anyway. I’ll look up those short stories of yours. See if you’re actually any good.”

You feel a ridiculous surge of hope. “Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited,” she warns, but she is smiling. “I’m a harsh critic.”

Just then, Danielle appears at the table, a coffee pot in hand. “Anything else for you guys?”

Minji starts gathering her things, pulling on her coat. “Nope, we’re good. I actually have to go.”

The spell is broken. The session is over. You pull out your wallet and pay the bill Danielle leaves on the table, leaving a generous tip. You realize that if this were a story, the transaction would be a harsh metaphor of the frame around this entire evening.

Minji waves a quick, casual goodbye to Danielle over her shoulder, and then you’re pushing through the diner’s glass door, back into the night. The cold hits you first, a damp slap in the face. The rain has eased into a fine, persistent drizzle that coats everything in a slick, reflective sheen. The city sounds are muffled, distant.

You fall into step beside her, the silence comfortable for a few paces. You’re not ready for the night to end, not ready for her to go back to being a name in a file at the front desk of that discreet green door.

“So, besides reading,” you start, trying to keep the thread of normalcy going, “is there anything else you like to do?”

She thinks for a moment, her breath pluming in the cold air. “Sleep,” she says.

“Right. You must be up all night for work. That’s got to be tiring.”

“You get used to it,” she says with a shrug. “Just flip the switch. The night is the day, the day is the night. I sleep all morning, all afternoon. The sun feels weird to me now.”

You look at her profile under the blurry halo of a streetlight. Now that she’s mentioned it, you can see it. Faint, dark smudges beneath her eyes, skillfully muted by makeup but there if you look. A weariness that settles deep into the lines of her face when she isn't actively smiling. It does nothing to diminish how beautiful she is; it just makes her beauty seem more fragile, poetically tainted.

“I really like sleeping, though,” she continues, “sometimes I wish I could just sleep forever. Never wake up.”

“That’s… a little morbid, Minji.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking. I just mean… it’s nice in there. In the dark. Imagine just being asleep, all the time. Living in one dream after another. A whole other reality, just for you. No rules. No gravity.”

“You’ve definitely been reading too much Murakami,” you say, nudging her with your elbow.

She laughs for real this time and gives you a light, playful punch on the arm that sends a surprising warmth through your whole body. “Shut up, you.”

And in that small, perfect moment of connection, you both hear it.

crack

The sound is disorienting, brittle, and sickeningly final. It comes from under your foot. You both freeze and look down. There on the wet, black pavement is a snail, its delicate, spiraled shell shattered into a dozen pieces, its soft body a ruined mess.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe. “Poor thing.”

“You get used to it,” Minji says coldly.

“I don’t know about that.”

She looks at you, her face serious in the dim light. “It only happened because you’re with me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I step on them,” she says, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. “Every time I walk around in the rain. Always. Without fail.”

You manage a skeptical laugh. “That’s just a coincidence, Minji.”

“No, it’s not.” She looks at you intently. “Think about it. Before tonight, have you ever, in your entire life, accidentally stepped on a snail? Not on purpose, when you were a psycho kid. Accidentally.”

You search your memory. Bugs, yes. But a snail? The specific, gruesome crack of a shell? You honestly don’t think so. “No… I guess not.”

“See?” she says, as if this proves everything. “It happens to me. All the time, during the rainy season. It’s my thing.”

“And you think it… means something?”

“It’s probably a curse.”

“It seems like a very specific, kind of pointless curse,” you argue, trying to be the rational one. “Surely you’re not the only person in the world who steps on snails.”

She snorts. “Okay, writer boy. You’ll see for yourself.” She says it as if she's challenging you. “Now that you’ve been with me, it’ll start happening to you, too. You’ll see.”

“Has anything… bad ever happened to you because of this so-called curse?”

She gestures to herself with an open palm: her coat, her job, her presence on this dark street at this hour of the night. The gesture encompasses her entire existence.

“Look at me,” she says simply.

“That’s not evidence, that’s paranoia.”

She just shakes her head, giving up on you. You’ve walked the few blocks back, and the plain, dark-green door is right in front of you. The end of the line.

“So,” you say, hating the transactional feeling that’s creeping back in. “When can I see you again?”

“Same day next week is fine,” she says. Then she adds, “But we’re doing this during the day. My treat. Meet me at that same diner. Say, three o’clock.” She sees the question on your face and clarifies. “I could be with a client right now instead of walking around with you. But there’s no business for me on a Wednesday afternoon. Maximize profits, you know?” The logic is cold, but the offer is warm. She smiles, a genuine, tired smile. “It was good to see you again, writer boy. You’re still full of surprises.”

“You too.” You think about adding something else, but you just leave it at that.

You start to turn, to walk away into the drizzle.

“Hey!”

You look back. Minji is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“Thanks for the burger.”

“You’re paying next time.”

She laughs. It's the only sound on the empty street besides the rain. “No fucking way.”

She gives you one last look, then disappears inside, the green door clicking shut behind her. You smile to yourself and continue on your way, the sound of the rain blending with the echo of her laugh.

—

The week crawls by, and Minji takes up residence in your head, rent-free. You find yourself rereading the notes from the diner, but the clinical observations feel like a cheap caricature now. What you remember is the sad, knowing look in her eyes when she talked about her high school self, the sound of her real laugh, the surprising warmth of her arm when she punched you. You can’t square the woman who debated Foucault in a greasy spoon with the transactional reality of her life. The question of how she got there becomes an obsessive, unanswerable itch in your brain, a direct violation of her first and most important rule.

When Wednesday finally arrives, you’re standing outside the diner ten minutes early. She arrives right on time, and for a second, you don’t recognize her. The night-time creature from the brothel, all silky black dress and calculated allure, is gone. In her place is a girl who could be any other student on her way to the library. She’s wearing a pair of worn, faded jeans that fit her perfectly, a soft-looking red and black flannel shirt, and a pair of scuffed work boots. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and without the careful makeup, the dark circles under her eyes are more pronounced.

“Wow,” you say, the word escaping before you can stop it. “You look… different.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets and gives you a wry, tired smile. “Yeah, well. I’m not gonna walk around looking like a whore on my day off, am I?” She starts walking toward the diner’s entrance. “Bad for business. No guy wants to fuck a girl who looks like she just came from a shift. They want the illusion that they’re the only one.”

The casual cynicism is a splash of cold water, and the best thing to say is to say nothing. You just follow her inside and slide into the same booth as last time. The coffee you order is hot and bitter and does nothing to wake her up. She cradles the warm mug in her hands, her eyelids heavy.

“Where to?” you ask gently. “The city’s your oyster.”

She shrugs, staring into her cup. “I don’t know. I mostly just sleep.” Then a flicker of something animates her face, a memory surfacing. “There was this place… an arcade. I spent half my childhood in there. I heard it’s closing down at the end of the month.” She looks at you. “I’d like to see it one last time. For old time’s sake.”

“Okay,” you smile, “let's go to the arcade then.”

—

The arcade is what you'd expect from an arcade about to close its doors forever. Half the machines are dark, bearing sad, handwritten ‘Out of Order’ signs, but the ones that still work blink and beckon. As you step inside, a wave of nostalgia hits you so hard. The worn, patterned carpet, the prize counter filled with cheap plastic junk, the specific layout of the machines - you know this place.

“I used to come here,” you say. “All the time. After school.”

She looks at you, her eyes wide. “No way. Me too. You think we were ever here at the same time? Two little kids, playing games ten feet away from each other, with no idea.”

“It’s possible,” you say, and the thought of that missed connection, of the parallel lives you lived, hangs between you, both beautiful and sad.

She immediately heads for a vintage Street Fighter II cabinet.

“You’re going down, writer boy,” she says, cracking her knuckles with theatrical flair.

You laugh, grabbing the joystick on the right. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. I was a legend on this thing.”

You were not a legend on this thing. She annihilates you. Her fingers dance across the buttons. She’s all focus and instinct, her tongue stuck out in concentration, her body swaying with the on-screen action. She beats you five games in a row, her character executing flawless combos while yours flounders. Her laughter is loud and triumphant, echoing through the half-empty arcade. It’s the freest you’ve ever seen her.

You move on to a sit-down racing game, the plastic shells of the cars cracked and faded. She chooses a red Ferrari; you pick a blue Lamborghini. She spends the entire race yelling at the screen, leaning her whole body into the turns, her flannel-clad shoulder bumping against yours. She beats you by a full lap. At the air hockey table, her defense is impenetrable, her shots like cannon fire. The puck is a blur, ricocheting off the walls until it slams into your goal again and again.

After being humiliated countless times, you give up. Minji is doing a little victory dance, and given the circumstances, that's what I'd call “dancing on your grave”.

“Okay, okay, I give,” you laugh, holding your hands up in surrender. “You’re a monster. A stone-cold killer. I’m starting to think you hustled kids for their lunch money in places like this.”

She stops dancing and points a finger at you. “Don’t be a sore loser, writer boy. You were the one talking all that trash about being a ‘legend.’ I was just defending the honor of this fine establishment.”

“I was taking it easy on you!” you protest. “It’s called sportsmanship. You should try it sometime.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, to sleep at night.” She straightens up, rolling her shoulders back. The change in her is remarkable.

“You don’t seem so sleepy anymore.”

“Humiliating you has renewed my will to live,” she says, her face completely serious before it breaks into a wide, beautiful grin. “Come on. I saw a pizza counter in the back. The loser buys.”

The pizza is terrible and perfect all at once. It’s greasy, the cheese is a little too rubbery, and the crust is a bland, chewy platform for the slick of tomato sauce. You both sit on a pair of wobbly stools at a high-top table. For a few minutes, you just eat in silence. Minji, you note again, eats with a focused, unselfconscious intensity that you find completely captivating. She finishes her first slice and dabs her mouth with a thin paper napkin before turning to you.

“So,” she begins. “This writing thing. Why’d you pick it? Or did it pick you?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s a reversal of the roles you’d established, of the dynamic she herself had critiqued so sharply. Now she was the one probing, asking the questions. You swallow a bite of pizza, buying yourself a second to think of an answer that isn’t complete bullshit.

“I don’t know,” you start, being honest. “I was always the quiet kid. In my own head all the time. I guess writing was… a way to build things. You create these little worlds, you know? And inside them, you’re in control. You’re the god of that little universe. It gives you a sense of power, of authority, when you don’t really have any in the real world.” You look down at your plate, feeling a little exposed. “And I guess… it’s a way of being seen, without actually having to show yourself. You can pour everything you are onto the page, all the ugly and weird and confusing parts, and people can see it, connect with it. But you’re still safe. You’re still hiding behind the words.”

Minji listens intently, her eyes fixed on you. She doesn’t respond right away, just considers your confession with a serious gravity. She takes a slow sip of her soda, the sounds of the arcade seeming to fade into the background.

“Everyone wants to be seen, don’t they?” she muses. “It’s like… the most basic human thing. Proof of existence.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “I was reading about those cave paintings in Argentina. The really old ones. There’s one cave, the Cave of Hands, where it’s just… hundreds of handprints stenciled on the walls. Men, women, even children. They’d put their hand on the rock and blow pigment around it. It’s so simple, but it’s devastating when you think about it. It’s not a story, it’s not a hunt. It’s just a signature. Thirty thousand years later, it’s still there. It’s just a person yelling into the void, ‘I was here. We were here. My hand was this big. Can you see me?’”

“And you? Do you want to be seen like that?”

She takes a long time to answer. She looks away, toward a racing game where a kid is furiously spinning the wheel, his face illuminated by the flashing screen. “I think,” she says finally, turning back to you, “I just want people to see me differently. And I feel like I can’t change how they see me. The mold is set.”

“Is it because of the…” you start, the word ‘prostitution’ dying on your lips.

“It’s not just that,” she cuts you off, anticipating your clumsy attempt at understanding. “That’s just a job. A small, shitty part of my life. It’s everything else. It’s the stuff you’re not allowed to ask about.” She sighs. “The problem is, I can’t talk about any of it without it sounding like some sob story. Without people getting that look in their eyes. Pity. And then I’m not a person anymore. I’m a victim. A project. Something to be saved.”

Her eyes lock onto yours, and they are blazing with a fierce, defiant pride. “Honestly? I’d rather you see me as your object of study than as a victim.”

“I don’t see you as either.”

She holds your gaze for a long moment, then just nods. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”

After paying for the pizzas, you step back out onto the street. The sky has changed. The afternoon sun is gone, hidden behind a thick, uniform blanket of bruised-purple clouds. The air is cool and heavy with the promise of rain.

“I love days like this,” Minji says, pulling her flannel shirt tighter around herself as you start to walk. “Cold. A little gloomy. I hate the sun.”

“You hate the sun?” you ask, amused. “Who hates the sun?”

“I do,” she says, completely serious. “Sunny days are oppressive. Everything is so bright and beautiful, and everyone’s out, laughing and living their perfect, happy lives, moving forward on their paths. It’s all so… harmonious. And I just can’t seem to fit into that picture.” She kicks at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk. “It feels almost illegal to be sad on a sunny day. Like you’re a bug in the system. But on days like this…” She gestures up at the heavy sky. “The world feels like I do. It gets it. And I can just be. I feel happier this way.”

It’s one of the most honest and insightful things you’ve ever heard. You memorize these words to write them down later. “That’s… an interesting way to look at it,” you admit.

You walk in silence for a few more blocks, the city shifting around you, preparing for the coming storm. You approach a busy intersection, and she stops, turning to face you.

“This is me. My time’s up. Got to get home and get ready for the night shift.”

The spell of the afternoon is broken. You reach into your pocket and pull out the folded cash you’d prepared. The act of handing it to her feels clumsy and wrong, a crude gesture that erases the genuine connection you just felt. She takes it without ceremony and tucks it into the pocket of her jeans.

“I’m going to buy a very expensive, very unhealthy cigarette with this,” she says with a small and defiant smile on her lips.

“I’ll see you next week, then? For our next session?”

“It’s a deal. Bye, writer boy.”

She turns and starts to walk away, merging with the handful of other people waiting for the light to change.

“Minji!” you call out.

She stops and looks back over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

“I prefer days like this, too,” you say. “For writing. The gloom is… comforting. That and a good cup of coffee, and I can write for hours.”

A real smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes this time. “The writer boy has style.” She gives you a final, small wave, then turns and disappears into the crowd crossing the street.

You stand there for a moment, watching her go. “You have it too,” you whisper to the empty air.

You turn away from the intersection, a faint, involuntary smile on your face, replaying her last words. The feeling is warm, a small, bright ember in the gloom of the approaching evening. You take a single step off the curb, your mind a million miles away, and then your foot comes down.

Crack.

The sound slices through the city's hum. It’s identical. Unmistakable. You freeze, looking down at the sole of your sneaker. Impaled on the tread is the wreckage of another snail, its shell a mosaic of shattered fragments. A cold, strange feeling, like static electricity, prickles up your spine. Now that you’ve been with me, it’ll start happening to you, too. Her voice echoes in your head, a calm, certain prophecy. It’s absurd. It’s a stupid, irrational coincidence. But the proof is stuck to the bottom of your shoe. You look back across the street, a sudden, urgent need to find her, to show her, to share in the sheer weirdness of it. But the crowd has already swallowed her whole. She’s gone.

You’re alone with her curse.

—

The rest of the week is a compulsive obsession that, in the end, leads you nowhere. You try to work on your novel, but the fictional girl on your page feels thin and lifeless compared to the flesh-and-blood enigma who now occupies your thoughts. You spend hours sketching out her character in your notebook, not for the book, but for yourself. You list the contradictions: her fierce intelligence and her fatalism, her cynical armor and the glimpses of the joyful, vulnerable kid underneath, the way she can dissect a French philosopher one minute and issue a challenge on Street Fighter the next. Each new detail only makes her more complex, more unknowable, and more impossible to forget.

By the time Wednesday rolls around again, you realize while waiting that you've been living your days only for this moment, and it's a worrying realization, the same fixation on something that drove you away from your ex-girlfriend in the past. And friends. And family.

It’s raining today, a steady, determined downpour that turns the city into a watercolor painting of gray and smeared neon. You see her waiting under the diner’s awning, and you feel that familiar jolt. You brought an umbrella, a big black one, and you see she has one too, a clear one with a simple white handle. Today, she’s wearing a dark, knee-length trench coat, belted at the waist, and the same scuffed boots as last week. She looks like a character from a French New Wave film, mysterious and chic and completely at home in the melancholic weather.

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of her.

“Hey, writer boy,” she replies. “You came prepared.”

“Looks like you did too,” you say, nodding toward her umbrella. She opens hers, and for a moment you both stand there, enclosed in your own little transparent domes. “So what’s the plan for today, consultant?”

She takes a small pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket, taps one out, and puts it between her lips. “No plan,” she says, speaking around the unlit cigarette as she digs for a lighter. “Let’s just walk. We’ll figure it out.” That sounds perfect to you. She finds the lighter, cups her hand around the flame, and the tip of the cigarette glows orange. She takes a long, slow drag, then exhales a plume of smoke that collides with the misty air and vanishes. You start walking, the rhythm of your steps and the rain on your umbrellas creating a moving pocket of sound and solitude.

“When did you start smoking?”

“Sixteen.”

“Seriously? In high school?” You try to picture it, to place this habit onto the girl you remember, the one with the books and the quiet intensity. It doesn’t fit. “I never would have guessed. You were good at hiding it.”

“You have to be, at that age,” she says with a shrug. “It was just one of the things you didn’t see.”

You walk in silence for a block, the only sounds being the rain and the soft hiss of her cigarette. The city feels washed clean, the streets dark and reflective like a river.

“So how was your week?” you ask, trying to sound casual, trying not to let on that you’ve thought of little else.

She takes another drag. “Routine. The usual.”

“What is the usual? What’s a normal night like for you?”

She gives you a sideways glance, a silent reminder of her rule about personal questions. But this feels different, less about her past and more about the simple, grinding mechanics of her present. She seems to decide it’s a permissible question.

“It’s not as exciting as you probably imagine,” she says. “I get there around seven. Sit in that little room. Read a book. Wait for the old woman to call me on the desk phone. A john shows up. We go to the room. He tells me about his shitty job, or his wife who doesn’t get him, or he doesn’t say anything at all. He gets what he paid for. He leaves. I change the sheets. I wash up. I go back to the little room. I pick up my book. I wait for the phone to ring again. Repeat three, four, maybe five times. Go home when the sun is coming up. The end.”

The description is so bleak, so devoid of drama, it’s more chilling than any horror story you could invent. It’s the sheer, soul-crushing monotony of it.

You keep walking, the rain starting to come down harder now. You pass a small city park. It’s completely deserted, the swings swaying gently in the wind, the metal slide slick with rain. A large, multi-colored plastic playground structure (a sort of miniature castle with tunnels and windows) sits in the middle of a sandpit that has turned to dark, wet mud.

Minji stops, tilting her head as she looks at it. She takes one last drag from her cigarette, then flicks the butt into a puddle where it sizzles and dies.

“Come on,” she says, a sudden, mischievous glint in her eye. “I have an idea.”

She ducks under the railing and starts walking across the wet grass toward the playground. You follow, your shoes squelching in the mud.

“What’s the idea?” you call after her.

She reaches the plastic castle and points to a small, arched opening at its base. “Temporary shelter,” she says. “And a better place to talk than the street.” She crouches down and crawls inside without a moment’s hesitation. You stand there for a second, feeling ridiculous, then you collapse your umbrella, shake off the water, and crawl in after her.

“I don’t know if we’ll both fit in there,” you say, eyeing the low, arched entrance. “That’s made for, like, eight-year-olds.”

Minji is already on her hands and knees, peering into the plastic cavern. She looks back at you over her shoulder, her face framed by the bright blue plastic. “Aren’t we all just eight-year-olds pretending to be adults, anyway?”

You can’t argue with that. You let out a sigh and crouch down to follow her in. It’s a tight squeeze. The space inside is a cramped, hollow dome of faded red plastic. It’s surprisingly cozy. The world outside is reduced to a gray, watery blur seen through the circular cut-out windows. The drumming of the rain on the roof is loud and rhythmic, an oddly comforting roar, isolating you both from the rest of the city. The air smells of wet earth and ozone.

You manage to get seated, your back pressed against the curved wall, your knees practically touching hers. “Great,” you groan, trying to shift into a position that doesn't feel like a future chiropractic emergency. “My back is going to kill me later.”

She laughs at your suffering. “You need to exercise more, writer boy. Get that ass out of the chair and move around. You can’t just sit there all day, decaying.”

“Hey,” you protest, though she’s not wrong. “It’s part of the job. Creative work requires a comfortable, stationary butt.”

“That’s nonsense,” she scoffs, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Some writers wrote standing up. Hemingway had a whole setup for it.”

“Well, I’m not Hemingway, and I prefer my ergonomic chair with the lumbar support, thank you very much.”

“Of course you do,” she grunts, but she’s smiling. You laugh too.

She runs a hand along the curved plastic wall. “There was a playground like this, near where I used to live,” she says. “I loved this thing. It felt like a spaceship.” She turns to you, the dim, red-filtered light making her eyes seem darker, deeper. “What’s your best childhood memory?”

“Wow. That’s a tough one.” You lean your head back against the wall. “I don’t know about the best, but I remember… I remember loving the weekend road trips my parents and I used to take. We didn’t go anywhere fancy. Sometimes just to a neighboring city, or a state park a few hours away. But when you’re a little kid, every new place is another universe. New smells, new kinds of trees, new people with different accents. It was magic. I especially remember this one period right after I learned to read. I was obsessed. On those car trips, I would read every single sign we passed. Out loud. Billboards, street signs, exit signs, historical markers, everything. ‘Speed Limit Fifty-Five.’ ‘Next Gas Two Miles.’ ‘Visit the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.’ It drove my parents absolutely insane.”

Minji laughs out loud, covering her mouth while trying to catch her breath. “Oh my god! I can picture that so clearly. A tiny little you, sounding everything out, just narrating the entire highway.”

“Yeah, that was me,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “So, your turn. What’s your best memory?”

Her smile cracks. Just for a second, but it’s unmistakable. “Rule number one, remember?” she says quietly. “No past.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I started it.” She takes a deep, steadying breath, as if preparing for a dive into cold water. “I’ll tell you. But just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

You just nod, waiting.

“I remember when I got my first bike,” she begins, looking through the plastic wall and into another time. “It was blue. A little rusty, secondhand. I remember learning to ride it, the training wheels coming off, the scraped knees. There was this kid, a boy who lived next door. He and I, we spent an entire summer afternoon just… riding. All over the neighborhood, for hours, until our legs felt like they were going to fall off.”

She pauses, and a faint, sad smile touches her lips. “There was this one afternoon. We rode farther than we ever had before. We crossed this really high, long bridge over a ravine. And on the other side, we used our allowance to buy popsicles from a corner store. I remember sitting on the curb in the middle of that bridge, the bikes lying in a heap next to us, just eating these dripping, sticky popsicles.”

She looks at you, trying to see if you're really paying attention to this small piece of her memory. “It was a sunny day. I know it was a Sunday. And the sun… it’s a weird thing to remember, but the light was different that day. It was this unique, golden color. It made everything look… sacred, almost. It was a glow I’d never seen before, and I’ve never seen it again since. And it’s not just nostalgia, it’s not my memory playing tricks. I remember noticing it, even back then. I remember just staring at the trees and the ravine and the sky, thinking, this is special. My friend asked me what I was looking at.”

The memory is so vivid, you feel like you’re there with her. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” she whispers. “I just shrugged. I was maybe eight or nine. I didn’t have the words. And I didn’t want him to think I was weird. But I’ve regretted it ever since. I wish I’d asked him. I wish I’d said, ‘Don’t you see it? Don’t you see how different the sun is today?’” She looks down. “After that, we rode home. I remember my legs burning on the pedals all the way back. And I remember having pasta for dinner with my parents.” Minji is silent for a moment, and you think she's finished, but then she adds: “I would give anything to see a day like that again.”

“I thought you hated the sun,” you say gently.

“I do,” she says. “But it wasn’t always like that. And that day… that day was a fluke. An exception to every rule. If I ever saw another one, maybe I’d feel differently.”

“You have incredibly detailed memories of your childhood.”

She shrugs, the movement jerky, as she fumbles in her coat pocket for another cigarette. “Not really.” She finds one and puts it between her lips, but doesn’t light it. “That’s one of the only things I actually remember. That day. The rest is just… a blur. It’s weird. I have almost nothing else from before I was, like, a teenager. It’s like my brain decided to erase everything for some reason. But it kept that one day. I remember every second of it.”

“Sometimes,” you begin, trying to bring some kind of comfort or understanding, “our brains do that to protect us. Erase things. When we go through… you know. A really big trauma. It’s a defense mechanism. A way to keep functioning.”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to play therapist. Using some sentimental, pop-psychology bullshit to get me to open up about my tragic past. You think if you dangle the idea of ‘trauma’ in front of me, I’ll spill everything so you can get a better chapter out of it.” She leans forward, and you can almost see the threat in her eyes, even though you know it's a self-preservation mechanism. “It’s not going to work.”

“Okay, you caught me,” you joke, raising your hands. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

She finally lights the cigarette she’s been holding, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating her face in the dim, red light. She takes a long, slow drag, then holds it out to you.

“Here,” she says. “Shut up a little and have a drag.”

“Oh, no, I don’t smoke,” you say, waving it away automatically.

“I know,” she says, the cigarette still held between her fingers, an offering. “It’s obvious. You should try it. Just once.” She gives you a knowing look. “You won’t get addicted from one puff. I promise. In fact, you’ll probably hate it. Nobody likes their first cigarette. You have to smoke at least ten before your body learns to like the poison. That’s when the addiction starts.”

You’re about to refuse again, to give her a lecture on carcinogens that you both know is pointless. But then you look at the cigarette. At the white paper, the glowing orange tip, and the dark, wet stain on the filter from her lips. The thought of putting your mouth where hers just was, of sharing that small, illicit intimacy, overcomes all your rational thought. You reach out and take it from her, your fingers brushing against hers.

You bring it to your lips. The filter is still warm. You inhale the way you’ve seen actors do it in movies, a deep, confident breath. The smoke hits the back of your throat like a fistful of hot gravel and ash. Your body rebels instantly. A violent, barking cough erupts from your chest, wracking your entire frame. Your eyes water, and you double over, the cigarette falling from your trembling fingers.

Minji bursts out laughing, a full-throated, genuine laugh that’s startlingly loud in the enclosed space. “Jesus, writer boy,” she gasps between laughs, picking up the cigarette from the plastic floor. “Don’t try to swallow it. It’s not a dick. It’s soft. Just a little puff.”

Your throat feels raw, but you take the cigarette back from her, embarrassed. This time, you do as she says, drawing in just a tiny bit of smoke, letting it sit in your mouth for a second before blowing it out. It’s still acrid and disgusting, but it doesn’t try to kill you. You hand it back to her.

“I don’t know how you can stand that,” you rasp.

She takes a graceful drag, inhaling the smoke you found so vile as if it were the purest mountain air. “It tastes like death,” she says, exhaling slowly. “I like it.”

For a moment, there is only silence. The drumming of the rain on the roof, the faint glow of her cigarette, the shared breath in the small, dark space. You look at each other, and it’s her, again, who breaks the spell.

“I read one of your stories,” she says, changing the subject completely.

Your heart gives a nervous little kick. “Oh yeah? What did you think? Be honest.”

“It was surprisingly good,” she says, and the backhanded compliment is the most sincere praise you’ve ever received. “The one called ‘A Pause to Live.’ I found it online.” She takes another puff, gathering her thoughts. “That character, the doctor. She spends her whole life being perfect, disciplined, always planning for a future that’s supposed to be her reward. Then she gets the cancer diagnosis and realizes the future isn’t coming.” Minji looks at you. “And the way she just… breaks. Teaming up with that criminal patient, that charming, nihilistic asshole. It was good. Fun, exciting. But also really sad. I was surprised. I actually wished it was longer. You made them feel like real people.”

“That was my last one,” you say, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “It’s the one that got the best reviews. But… I still feel like I need to evolve. To get deeper.”

“Well,” she says, tapping a bit of ash onto the floor. “In that case, I hope I’m helping.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re helping a lot.”

“Good.” She smiles. “So how’s the book coming? The one about me.”

“It’s, uh, relatively stagnant,” you admit. “I’m still just in the gathering-information phase. But I feel like these sessions… they’re enriching me. As a writer.”

She lets out a short laugh. “They’re enriching me, too. Your weekly payments are very welcome.” You feel a flash of disappointment, thinking she was going to say something more. She must see it on your face, because she reaches out and gives your shoulder a playful shove. “Hey, I’m kidding. Mostly.” Her expression softens. “Seriously, though. This has been… nice. It’s almost like weird therapy. An escape from the routine. I get to come out here and pretend to be a person for a few hours.” She looks away, a little shyly. “It’s cool. I feel a little… seen. I thought it was going to be way worse.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I’m really happy.” The words give you a surge of courage. “Actually… I was going to ask you for your number.”

Her guard is instantly back up. “Why?”

“To talk,” you say quickly. “During the week. I’ve really enjoyed… this. Talking to you. And waiting a whole week is a long time. I thought maybe… we could text. Or whatever. If you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

“Okay… Yeah. Okay.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

You fumble it out of your pocket and hand it to her. Her fingers are cool as they brush against yours. She types in her number, creates a new contact, then opens her messages and sends a single word to herself: Hey.

“There,” she says, handing it back. “We should probably get out of here. Before someone calls the cops on the two weirdos hiding out in the playground.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” you agree, already feeling the ache in your joints.

She starts to crawl toward the opening, but then she stops. She’s looking at something on the floor. You follow her gaze and see it: a small, grey smudge of cigarette ash, right next to a built-in plastic steering wheel. A tiny, insignificant mess.

“I’m a monster,” she whispers, and before you can say anything, she scrambles out of the opening and into the rain.

You follow her out, back into the real world. You both open your umbrellas. The gray, wet city feels stark and cold after the strange, colorful intimacy of the shelter. You start walking again.

“It happened, by the way,” you say, just to break the silence. “After I left you last week. I stepped on one.”

She doesn’t seem surprised. She just keeps looking straight ahead, her face set. “I told you it would.”

“It’s still not proof,” you insist. “It could be a coincidence. Even lightning can strike the same place twice.”

“You don’t even believe that anymore, writer boy. I can hear it in your voice.” She’s right. You don’t. The feeling when it happened was too specific, too weird.

“Is this… is it dangerous?” you ask, the question sounding stupid as soon as it leaves your mouth. “This whole snail thing?”

“No,” she says simply.

“How can you be so sure?”

She finally turns to look at you, her eyes meeting yours under the canopy of your umbrellas. “Because I won’t let anything happen to you.” The statement is so direct, so fiercely protective, that you're almost certain you blushed a little.

“How can you guarantee that?”

“Because I know myself,” she explains. “Before things get too deep, too complicated… I’ll disappear. Someday. And when I’m gone, the snail thing will stop. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Disappear? Why would you disappear?”

“It’s what I do,” she says with a shrug. “It’s my one reliable talent. When things get complicated, I leave. It’s better for everyone. A preventative measure.” She looks you dead in the eye. “I’m a walking mess. A tornado in a coat. Trust me. Nobody really wants that around for the long haul.”

“Maybe I do.”

A sad, tired smile touches her lips. It’s a smile that has seen this conversation before. “That’s sweet of you to say. But you don’t know me. Not really. You just know this version of me. The curated one.”

“And what if I want to know the real you? All of it?”

“Why?” she shoots back. “Why would you want that? I’m your object of study, remember? Your project.”

“No. You’re not. Not anymore. You’re my friend… or something. Something close to it.”

“Exactly,” she exclaims. “That’s exactly why I won’t let you get any closer. For your own good. And for mine.” She must see the alarm on your face, because she adds, “I’m not going to kill myself, so you can relax. I just mean I’ll leave. Pack a bag and go. Start over somewhere else where nobody knows the brand.”

“Why are you so sure that’s how this ends?” you plead. “It doesn’t have to.”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before. Many times. And I’ve never been strong enough to stop the people around me from getting hurt. But I’m not making that mistake again. Not this time.”

“The snail thing isn’t a curse, Minji,” you insist, trying to find some leverage to pull her back from the edge. “You’re a good person. It doesn’t make sense—”

“Bad things happen to good people,” she cuts you off. “All the time. Especially to good people. Not that I’m claiming to be one. But nobody gets a free pass.”

“You’re young,” you argue, trying a different tack. “You’ve barely lived. It doesn’t make sense for someone to be this fatalistic when—”

“Your doctor,” she interrupts again. “The one in your story. How old was she? Thirty-one? She was a good person, wasn’t she? A healer. Young. And she got cancer eating her from the inside out. It didn’t make sense for that to happen to her, either.”

“That’s just a story I made up—”

“And I bet you did your research, didn’t you?” she presses, relentless. “I bet you wrote it with authority because you read the real stories of a dozen real young women who went through the exact same thing. Women who didn’t get a charming criminal to take them on a joyride. Women who just got sick and died. It happens. Bad things happen. Who the fuck knows why?”

You have no answer. She has dismantled every one of your arguments with a cold, brutal and nihilistic precision.

“Look,” she continues, a little gentle now, “how about this? We just… enjoy this. Whatever it is. For now. For as long as it lasts. And when it’s over, it’s over. And we’ll have some good memories to show for it. It’s better than having nothing, right?”

You want to argue. You want to rage against her certainty, against her self-fulfilling prophecy. But you look at her face, at the profound, unshakeable conviction in her eyes, and you know it’s pointless. You know these are the terms. All or nothing.

You give a slow, defeated nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “I have to go.” She gestures vaguely with her phone. “We’ll talk later. Text me or something.”

“I will,” you say.

She gives you a small, final smile and turns to walk away. Just before she gets too far, one last, desperate, practical question occurs to you.

“Hey!” you call out. She stops and looks back. “What if I just… what if I look down the whole time? When I’m walking. I could just watch my feet. Then I wouldn’t step on them.”

She considers your pathetic, logical solution for a moment. A sad, knowing look crosses her face.

“I’ve tried that,” she says. “But sooner or later, you have to look up. You have to look ahead to see where you’re going. And that’s when it happens. You’re so focused on the horizon that you don’t see the small, fragile things right under your feet. You just crush them and keep moving. That’s life.”

She turns and keeps walking, leaving you standing alone in the rain with the crushing weight of her words. That’s life.

—

The curse, if that’s what it is, continues. Twice that week, on your way to get groceries, you feel it. That sickening, delicate crack under your shoe. Both times you stop, a cold dread washing over you as you look down at the tiny, spiraled ruin on the pavement. It’s a coincidence. It has to be. You’re just more aware of it now, looking for it. You think about telling her, about sharing in the sheer, statistical improbability of it all. But you don’t. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction. You don’t want to add another piece of evidence to her grand, fatalistic theory of everything.

It’s a Thursday, one of those rare, bright autumn days that feels like a lie, when you see her. You’re coming out of a coffee shop, lost in thought, and you almost walk right into her. Hanni Pham. Your ex. She looks… exactly the same, to be honest. The two years since you’ve last seen her haven’t changed a thing. Which is a good thing, because from your point of view she was always the most beautiful girl you had ever met. She’s still got that cascade of dark, glossy hair, that face that always seemed to be on the verge of a smile. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored sweater and jeans, and she radiates a kind of effortless, sunny health that feels like a foreign language to you now. You instinctively duck your head, hoping to blend into the lunchtime crowd, a pathetic, cowardly impulse. But it’s too late.

“Hey! Is that you?”

Her voice is just as you remember it: warm, clear, and full of a genuine brightness. You’re caught. You turn, forcing a smile.

“Hanni. Hey. Wow. Small world.”

“I thought that was you!” she says, closing the distance between you. Her smile is too genuine for someone who just ran into her ex-boyfriend. “How have you been? It’s been forever.”

“I’m good. Yeah, good. Just… you know. Writing.”

She looks you over, her gaze both friendly and analytical. It’s the doctor in her. “You look tired. Are you busy right now? Can I… can we talk for a minute?”

It’s a terrible idea. A landmine. This is a ghost from a life you don’t live anymore. But you look at her open, friendly face, and the word that comes out of your mouth is, “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You end up in a different cafe, a bright, airy place with blonde wood tables and cheerful pop music playing. It feels a world away from the greasy spoon diners and rain-slicked streets you’ve been inhabiting. You both order coffee.

“So,” you start, just to fill the silence. “How’s life? Still slogging through med school?”

She nods, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Still slogging. It’s… a lot. Anatomy is trying to kill me. But it’s good. I like it. What about you? I saw you published that story, ‘A Pause to Live.’ I read it. It was really, really good. I was so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, looking down into your cup.

“Are you working on the novel now? That was always the dream, right? The big one.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m working on it. It’s… slow going.”

“What’s it about?” she asks, and you know her curiosity is genuine.

You hesitate. How do you even begin to explain? It’s about a prostitute I hired who quotes Foucault and thinks she’s cursed. You shake your head. “It’s still taking shape. To be honest, I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore.”

She just nods, accepting your evasion. “It was nice, seeing you,” she says finally. “I’ve been… thinking about you. Lately.”

Here it comes. The minefield.

“The way we ended things…” she continues, tracing a circle on the table with her finger. “It was so stupid.”

The breakup had been a slow, grinding dissolution. You were drowning in your work, stressed and obsessed, convinced that the only path to becoming a “real” writer was through total, monastic devotion. You pushed everyone away, especially her. Hanni, with her logical, scientific mind, could never quite understand why you had to bleed for your art. She saw it as a choice, not a compulsion. The gulf between your worlds had just grown too wide to cross.

“It was my fault,” you say, the guilt still fresh after all this time. “I was a mess. I completely neglected you, our whole relationship.”

“No. Don’t do that. It wasn’t all you. I was to blame, too. I didn’t get it. I didn’t even try to understand what you were going through.” Her eyes are full of a sincere regret. “You were working so hard, trying to build something, and I… I wasn’t supportive. I should have been.”

“You were supportive,” you argue. “You read every draft. You debated me on character motivations. You were my first reader.”

“That’s not the same as being a partner,” she insists. She takes a deep breath, and you can see her steeling herself. “I… I want to try again.”

“Hanni…”

“I know it’s a lot,” she says quickly, seeing the shock on your face. “But I miss you. I miss… us. For all the drama at the end, it was good, wasn’t it? It was calm. We were happy. I miss that feeling.” She gives you a small, vulnerable smile. “If you’re willing, of course. And… if you’re not seeing anyone.”

The question is a casual, brutal little dagger. And for some reason, the face that flashes in your mind is Minji’s. Minji in the dim light of that brothel room. Minji laughing in the arcade. Minji’s eyes in the red glow of the plastic playground castle. Are you seeing her? What the hell would you even call that?

You feel a surge of fear. Fear of hurting Hanni again. Fear of your own self-destructive patterns. Fear of trying to resurrect something that might be better left dead.

“Hanni, I… I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You won’t,” she says with a confidence you don’t share. “We’re older now. We’re different people. I’m different.”

Yeah, a life with Hanni would be… easy. It would be normal. Sunny days, holding hands, meeting her parents. A world without curses and cracked shells and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. A world without Minji. The thought leaves you feeling hollow.

“I… I need to think about it,” you finally manage to say. “It’s a lot to just spring on me in the middle of a Thursday.”

She nods. “I know. I’m sorry. Of course. Take your time.” She reaches across the table and briefly puts her hand on yours. Her skin is warm and soft. It feels like a trap. “Just… think about it, okay?”

You nod. You just nod.

Eventually, you both stand, the spell of the past broken by the simple act of pushing back your chairs. Outside the large window, the city moves on, oblivious. Hanni steps around the small table, and before you can process it, she’s hugging you. It’s a familiar embrace, one you haven’t felt in two years, and your body remembers it before your brain does. She feels small and warm in your arms, and her hair smells like peaches, just like it always did.

She pulls back, but keeps her hands on your shoulders. “I just want you to know,” she says with an emotion she isn’t trying to hide anymore. “I still love you. I never really stopped.”

It’s the one thing you didn’t want to hear, the one thing you can’t possibly respond to. Your throat closes up. All the words you’ve ever written, all the clever phrases and insightful lines, they all abandon you. You’re left mute, a pathetic statue of indecision. She sees the panic in your eyes, the total system failure, and a sad, knowing smile touches her lips. She pats your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and release.

“It’s okay,” she says, saving you. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You just stand there as she gives you one last, lingering look, then turns and walks out of the cafe, a ghost of a life you could have had disappearing back into the stream of the city. You don’t say anything. You just say goodbye to the empty space where she was standing.

The week crawls under the weight of Hanni’s confession. Her words, I still love you, echo in your head, a constant, low-frequency hum beneath the noise of your life. They represent a door, a path back to a world that is safe and warm and normal. A world that makes sense. You try to write, but your thoughts are a tangled mess. You keep thinking about her offer, weighing it against the strange, precarious arrangement you have with Minji. It’s the choice between a well-lit, paved road and a dark, unmarked trail into the woods.

And then, Wednesday arrives. Your favorite day. The sky is a uniform, melancholy gray, the clouds thick and low. It’s perfect. You meet her at your usual spot, the corner by the diner, and she’s already there. But she’s not alone.

Today, she’s wearing an oversized, thick, charcoal-gray hoodie, the hood pulled up over her head, casting her face in shadow. The sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, revealing the pale skin of her forearms. Below it, she’s wearing a simple black skirt that ends mid-thigh and a pair of torn black fishnet stockings tucked into her usual scuffed-up combat boots. And at her feet, on the end of a frayed rope leash, is a small, scruffy, cheerful-looking terrier mix.

You stop in front of her. “Okay. I have to ask.”

Minji looks up, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “What? You don’t like my outfit?”

“No, the outfit is… it’s a statement.” You gesture with your chin toward the dog, who is now sniffing your shoes now. “I mean him. Don’t tell me you have a dog.”

“He’s not mine,” she says, giving the leash a gentle tug. “He belongs to my neighbor. He’s old, can’t get around much anymore. Asked if I’d walk him. He pays me twenty bucks.” She shrugs. “Best twenty bucks I make all week. All I have to do is walk in a circle and pick up shit.”

The dog, having deemed your shoes uninteresting, looks up at you and lets out a single, sharp yip.

“He likes you,” Minji deadpans. “He has terrible taste in people.” She starts walking, and you fall into step beside her, the little dog trotting happily between you. “So. How was your week, writer boy? Write any masterpieces?”

“Not exactly. I did listen to that playlist you sent me, though.”

Her eyes light up with interest. “Oh yeah? What did you think?”

“It was… eclectic,” you say carefully. “The obscure indie stuff was cool. The weird 70s Japanese funk was interesting. But I gotta say, I didn’t peg you for a Maroon 5 fan.”

She lets out a short laugh. “Hey! Don’t knock it. Their first album is a legitimately perfect pop record. No skips. It’s pure early-2000s angst. It’s got a certain… veracity.”

“Okay, okay, point taken,” you concede with a laugh. “So, how was your week? Anything more exciting than walking this little guy?”

She’s quiet for a moment, just watching the pavement slide by. “It was a week,” she says finally. “Routine. The usual. A couple of assholes, a couple of sad sacks. One guy who cried after. Nothing new.” She kicks at a loose stone. “How about you? You seem… I don’t know. Distracted.”

Her perception is, as always, unnervingly accurate. The image of Hanni’s face, her hand on yours, flashes in your mind. You open your mouth to tell her, to unload the whole complicated, messy situation. You want her advice. You want to know what she thinks. But you know it's simply better not to. Telling her about Hanni feels like bringing a ghost into the room, a ghost from a bright, sunny world that has nothing to do with the gray, rain-slicked reality you share with Minji. It’s a betrayal of this fragile, weird thing you’re building.

“No, just tired,” you lie, shoving your hands in your pockets. “But actually,” you say, forcing a change of subject, trying to steer the conversation back to the familiar ground of your arrangement. “The notes. Your file. I’ve actually made some good progress this week.”

This gets her attention. She gives the leash a little slack, letting the terrier investigate a particularly interesting patch of weeds. “Progress?” she asks, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “Is it any good? Or is it just more notes about how I eat my cheeseburger?”

“It’s getting there,” you say, feeling a nervous energy thrumming in your chest. “It’s starting to feel like… something real.” You pause, taking a breath. “You should see it.”

“Oh, really? You’re finally going to let me see the secret file you have on me? Am I going to have to sign an NDA?”

You laugh, the sound is a little shaky. This is it. You gather up all the courage you have, a finite and flimsy resource, and you just say it. “Yeah. You can. I was thinking… maybe you could come over? To my apartment. On Friday. I’ll make dinner. You can read everything then.”

Her smile vanishes. The little dog yips, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“My god,” she murmurs. “No. That’s… that’s crossing a line, writer boy. A big one.”

“I know! I know it is. But I want to. Please, Minji.”

“You’re making things complicated,” she says, her gaze hard, her defenses slamming into place. “This isn’t what we do. We meet here. We walk. We talk. I go home. You go home. That’s the deal.”

“I know,” you press on, emboldened by a strange, reckless certainty. “But you know you want to, too. Don’t pretend you hate this. I know you enjoy these stupid Wednesdays as much as I do. So why keep pretending? Why drag it out?”

She stares at you. You can see the conflict between her rules and a desire she won’t admit to. She falls back on the only defense she has left, the one she always uses when things get too real.

“Fine,” she says, cold and transactional. “But I’m charging you. For the extra meeting. My full nightly rate.”

It's a test. It has to be. A way to push you away, to put the comfortable, ugly barrier of commerce back between you. You feel a flash of disappointment, but you don’t back down. You look her right in the eye and call her bluff.

“Okay.”

Your simple, immediate acceptance throws her. She was expecting you to argue, to be repulsed, to retreat. Instead, you just agreed to her terms.

“Why? Why are you so… interested? Why are you pushing this so hard?”

You don’t have to think about the answer. It’s the truest thing you know. “Because I think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

“Jesus Christ,” she scoffs. “Your bar is on the fucking floor, you know that?”

But the insult has no heat. She lets out a long, slow sigh, and then, with one fluid motion, she reaches up and pulls the hood back from her head.

Her hair, a black sheet of silk, falls around her face. The weak, gray light of the afternoon catches the perfect, unsettling symmetry of her. Without the shadow of the hood, you can see the faint, purple smudges of exhaustion under her eyes, the tiny, almost invisible scar that bisects her eyebrow.

“Okay,” she says, resigned. “Fine. I’ll come over. But just this once. I’ll… I’ll skip a night of work. For you.”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “I’ll pay you, of course. Whatever you would have made. It’s only fair.”

“No,” she says, looking away, down at the little dog. “Forget it. I’m not going to charge you. I’m… I’m going because I want to go.” She looks back at you, her gaze direct and a little shy. She thrusts the dog’s leash into your hand. “But you’re walking the dog. The rest of the way. And if he takes a shit, you’re picking it up.”

“Deal,” you say. “That is a very fair trade.”

She pulls her hood back up, disappearing once more into the shadows. “Good.”

You start walking again, the little terrier trotting happily at your side, a new silence settling between you.

“You know,” you say, just to break it. “You look nice today.”

She snorts. “Come on. I look like I’m about to mug you at any moment.”

You grin. “The only thing you’re going to steal is my heart, girl.”

Minji groans, loud and performative, and you can't help but laugh. “Oh my god, that was horrible. Truly awful. Never say that again.” But she’s laughing too. She reaches out and gives your shoulder a hard, friendly pat, and you walk on together through the gray afternoon, a shared smile on both your faces.

—

You've been ready for twenty minutes, but you still find things to check. The apartment is clean (it's always clean, you're wired that way) but today you scrubbed surfaces that didn't need scrubbing. You straightened books that were already straight. The dinner is done, a simple pasta dish with garlic and olive oil, nothing fancy, but you tested the seasoning three times. You hope she likes it. You hope she doesn't think you're trying too hard. You hope she doesn't think you're not trying hard enough. You're a mess of contradictions pacing your small living room.

The intercom buzzes and your heart jumps. You press the button. "Hey. Come on up."

You wait by the door, listening to the faint sounds of footsteps in the hallway, getting closer. Then the knock. Three soft taps. You take a breath and open it.

Minji is standing there, and the sight of her stops your thoughts cold. She's wearing a simple black dress, sleeveless, fitted at the waist and falling to just above her knees. It's nothing elaborate, no embellishments or flourishes, but on her it looks like something from another world. Her hair is down, falling straight and dark around her face. Her eyes are lined with a smoky shadow making them look even deeper, more intense. Her lips are a soft, muted rose. She looks… she looks like a dream you had once and forgot until this exact moment. The perfect girl (a line you would never use in one of your stories, but here you are, considering using it in your novel).

"Hey," you manage to say.

"Hey," she says back, and there's something in her voice, a nervousness you've never heard before. She shifts her weight, one hand holding a small black purse. "I, uh. I didn't really know how to dress for this. I hope it's not too much?"

"No. It's perfect. You look amazing."

A faint blush touches her cheeks. She looks away, down the hall, anywhere but at you. "Thanks."

You step aside, holding the door open. "Come in."

She walks past you, and you catch the faint scent of her perfume; clean and subtle, like jasmine and rain (and a little bit of cigarette smoke). You close the door and watch as she takes in your apartment. It's not much. A small living room with a couch, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks, a tiny kitchen visible through an open doorway. But it's yours.

"It's exactly your style," she says, running her fingers along the edge of the bookshelf. "Clean. Organized. A place for everything."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" you ask, smiling.

"Compliment," she says, her lips twitching into a small smile. She looks at the framed prints on the wall, the stack of notebooks on the coffee table. "I like it. It feels… calm."

You gesture toward the kitchen. "Dinner's ready. I made pasta. Nothing fancy, but I hope you like it."

"I'm sure it's great," she says, but she's still looking around, her eyes scanning the details of your life. She turns to you, a teasing glint in her eyes, and asks: "So. How many girls have you brought here, writer boy?"

"What? No, I—"

"Come on," she presses, grinning now. "Your life can't just be books and coffee twenty-four hours a day. You must have a roster."

"No roster. My ex-girlfriend used to come here, but that was a long time ago."

The grin fades from her face. She's quiet for a moment, then asks, "What was she like?"

"What's up with that question? Come on, I don't want to talk about ex-girlfriends right now, Minji."

She holds up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Fair." She looks toward the hallway. "Can I see your room?"

"Yeah. Of course."

You lead her down the short hall and open the door to your bedroom. It's small, just enough space for a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. The desk is cluttered with papers, notebooks, a laptop. The bed is made with obsessive care.

"This is where you write," she observes.

"Yeah."

She walks over to the desk, her fingers brushing the edge of the wood. You pull out the chair for her, and she sits, looking at you with a curious, expectant expression. You reach over and open a drawer, pulling out a thick, leather-bound notebook. Your handwriting covers every page. You place it in front of her.

"That's it," you say quietly. "All the notes. About you. About the character. It's… a mix of both, I guess."

She looks down at the notebook, then back up at you. "I hope there's nothing weird in here."

"I don't know about that," you say with a small smile.

You give her space to read calmly. You lie down on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. The paint is old, cracked in places. You count the imperfections while she opens the notebook and starts to read.

Page 3:

Her hands. I keep noticing her hands. They're relatively large, but delicate, there's a strength in the way she holds things. The way she gripped that burger at the diner, like she was afraid someone would take it from her. Or the way she held the cigarette, between her index and middle finger.

Page 7:

She has this habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. It's unconscious. Automatic. And every time she does it, I forget what I was about to say.

The small, white scar through her left eyebrow. A disruption in the symmetry. The only flaw in a face so perfect it's almost inhuman. And somehow, it's the scar that makes her real.

Page 11:

“Bad things happen to good people all the time. Especially to good people."

She said that like it was a law of physics. Like gravity. I don't know if she believes she's good, but I do.

Page 15:

A sketch. Rough, but unmistakable. Minji's face in profile, her jawline sharp, her expression distant. Another sketch below it; her eyes, just her eyes, rendered in careful detail. The way they look when she's listening to you, focused and just a little melancholic.

Page 19:

She told me she hates the sun. That on sunny days, the world feels like it's moving forward without her, and she's just stuck, a bug in the system. But on gray days, the world feels like she does. It gets it. She can just be.

I've never heard anyone articulate loneliness so perfectly.

Page 24:

There's a way she laughs (a real laugh, not the cynical, defensive one) where her whole face changes. It's like watching a door open. And for a second, you can see the girl she was before everything went wrong. Before the walls went up. I want to make her laugh like that all the time.

Page 28:

Another sketch. Minji sitting cross-legged, reading a book. Her posture is relaxed, vulnerable. The line work is softer here, less precise, like you were trying to capture a feeling more than an image.

Page 32:

She said she wants people to see her differently. That the mold is set. But she doesn't understand - she's not a mold. She's not a type. She's a person who reads Foucault and demolishes cheeseburgers and talks about thirty-thousand-year-old handprints in caves. She's someone who steps on snails and thinks it's a curse. She's someone who made me believe in curses.

Page 36:

I think she's the saddest person I've ever met. And the smartest. And the most beautiful. And I don't know how those three things can exist in one person without tearing her apart.

Page 41:

She is a girl trying to disappear into a world that refuses to let her go.

She is a ghost pretending to be a person.

She is a person everyone mistakes for a ghost.

Page 47:

"I'd rather you see me as your object of study than as a victim."

But I don't see her as either. I see her as Minji. And I don't know how to tell her that without breaking the rules.

She's quiet for a long time. You hear her breathing, soft and uneven. She turns another page. And another. Then she speaks, and her voice is fragile as if she had forgotten how to use it for a moment:

"Can I ask you a question?"

You're still staring at the ceiling, counting cracks. "Yeah."

"I want you to be honest."

"Okay."

She's quiet for a moment, gathering the courage. "On the other days. When we're not together. Do you think about me?"

You don't answer right away. You let the silence stretch, not because you don't know the answer, but because saying it out loud feels like stepping off a cliff.

"Honestly? All the time, Minji. You don't leave my head."

Another silence. Longer. Louder. You hear the chair creak as she shifts.

"I thought so," she says softly.

You turn your head to look at her. She's still facing the desk, her back to you, but you can see the tension in her shoulders.

"I think about you, too… constantly."

She turns in the chair, and that's when you see them. The tears. Silent, steady streams running down her face, cutting through the carefully applied makeup. Two black streaks of smudged shadow trail down her cheeks like ink in water. Her eyes are red, her lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold it all in.

"No one's ever…" Minji stops. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the black further. "No one's ever portrayed me like this. Like I'm… beautiful. Like I'm something worth looking at." She lets out a shaky breath. "I think you romanticized it a bit too much. But I liked it. It's nice to see myself through someone else's eyes and be a good sight. For a change."

You sit up slowly. She gets up from the chair, and for a second you think she's going to leave. That everything that happened here was too much for her. And you wouldn't judge her if she did. But she doesn't leave. She walks over to the bed and sits down next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her. Outside, the rain starts. You hear it before you see it, a soft pattering that builds into a steady drumming against the window. The room darkens, it's just you and her here, and it's lonely and it isn't at the same time.

"This is getting out of control.”

You turn your head to look at her. Her face is still streaked with black, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Why?"

"Because you're going to get hurt," she says, not looking at you. "You know that, right? This doesn't end well."

"It's too late for that. I'm going to get hurt no matter what happens. But I'm an adult. I chose this."

She lets out a bitter laugh. "You didn't choose this. You don't even know what you're choosing, writer boy."

"Then tell me."

She tilts her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face. "I can't promise you anything. I won't give you false hope. That's not fair to you. I'll say what I said last time: you can choose to enjoy the moment with me. Until the day I leave. Or you can give up now. Cut your losses. Walk away."

You reach out slowly, giving her time to pull back, to reject you. But she doesn't. Your hand finds hers, your fingers threading through hers.

"I won't give up on you," you say quietly. "On this."

"You don't understand. This is an illusion. It's fleeting. It might end tomorrow. It might end in five minutes."

"I don't care."

"You should care—"

"I don't," you interrupt, your grip on her hand tightening. "I don't care if it's an illusion. I don't care if it ends tomorrow. I just… I need you."

For a moment, she just stares at you, her dark eyes searching your face for something: doubt, hesitation, a reason to pull away. But she doesn't find it. And then she kisses you.

She tastes salt from her tears and the smoke from the cigarettes she must have smoked on her way here. Her lips are full and soft, moving against yours and you freeze for a fraction of a second, and then your hands move on their own. They go to her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer.

Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, something between a gasp and a sigh. You kiss her back with everything you have, pouring all the weeks of longing and confusion and desperate want into the contact.

She shifts, pulling back just long enough to swing one leg over your lap, straddling you. The dress rides up her thighs, and the weight of her on you, the heat of her body pressed against yours, is overwhelming. Your hands move from her waist to her hips, holding her there, anchoring her to you. Her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips still inches apart.

"You have me," she whispers. "But I'm not yours."

The words should hurt. They should be a warning, a barrier. But right now, with her in your lap, her breath on your face, they don't matter.

"I know," you say, pulling her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her back. "I know."

She buries her face in your neck, and you feel the dampness of her tears against your skin. You hold her like that, your hand stroking her hair, your other arm locked around her waist. The rain gets louder. The room gets darker. And for this one fragile, fleeting moment, she's here. She's real. She’s yours for as long as it lasts.

[paz404]

welcome to tumblr!

hope you'll indulge me with a couple questions:

who are your favourite idols?

what made you choose this plot for debut?

Hii, thx for the ask, it’s nice being on Tumblr; seems like there’s a pretty big writing community here, which is really cool

Honestly, I have so many favorite idols that the word "favorite" kind of stops meaning anything lol. But I really love Sana, Momo, Tzuyu, Mina, Miyeon, Shuhua, Haewon, Sullyoon, Yujin, Rei Chaewon, Yunjin, Irene, Seulgi, Minji, Hanni, Karina, Winter, Daniela, Lara... and the list just goes on.

I picked this plot because it had been living rent-free in my head for a while, and I needed to do something with it. Part of it was the challenge, it’s not exactly an easy one to make believable I guess, and part of it was just because I love stories that feel like essays, you don’t overthink, you just let it flow, whether you're writing or reading. Also, out of all the nearly finished stories or ones I’ve posted elsewhere, this felt like the most presentable one to start with; a decent little intro before people dive into the weirder, more chaotic stuff I’ve written lol

And yeah, I’ve been a little obsessed with the idea of Hanni as a love-at-first-sight kind of girl. I mean... let’s be honest: she’s made for that!!

[paz404]

your hanni fic was genuinely one of the most beautiful things ive read in a while. i can't believe that was your first post on this app and i can't wait for whatever comes next

Thanks for reading, I'm glad you liked it!! I'm pretty new here on Tumblr, so I'm still figuring out the formatting and stuff. Hope you vibe with the future fics too (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

[paz404]

City of Candles

Hanni Pham x male reader [15K words]

Day One: Apocalypse

You're on your couch, controller in hand, when the first rumble of thunder rolls across the city like God clearing his throat. The weather app on your phone has been screaming warnings all week - some massive storm system churning up from the Gulf, promising to turn the weekend into an apocalyptic light show. You're actually looking forward to it. There's something cool about being safely inside while nature throws a tantrum outside your windows. It’s as if, inside your apartment, nothing from the outside world can really get in, can really reach far enough to unravel the quiet you’ve built here.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Danielle: "Hey! Emergency favor? My friend needs a place to crash this weekend because of the storm. Her Airbnb got canceled last minute. Can she stay at your place?"

You pause your game and actually consider it for a moment. Your roommate Jake moved out two weeks ago to live with his girlfriend, leaving the spare room empty except for a bed and some boxes you haven't bothered to move yet. The place feels too quiet without his constant stream of terrible jokes and questionable cooking experiments.

"Who is it?" you text back.

"Hanni! I've mentioned her before. She's traveling around before starting her career. Super sweet, you'll love her."

You do vaguely remember Danielle talking about some friend who was taking a gap year to see the world. Something about learning languages and having adventures that make your Netflix-and-takeout lifestyle seem embarrassingly mundane.

"Sure, why not. When's she coming?"

"OMG thank you! She'll be there around 6. You're the best!"

It's 3 PM now. You look around your apartment with the critical eye of someone who's about to have a stranger judging their living space. It's not terrible - you're not one of those guys who lives like a feral college student - but it's definitely bachelor-pad basic. Clean enough, but lacking any personality beyond your gaming setup and the collection of empty beer bottles you keep meaning to recycle.

You spend the next hour doing a speed clean that mostly involves shoving random items into closets and running a vacuum over the visible carpet. The spare room gets fresh sheets that smell like the lavender detergent your mom bought you in a misguided attempt to civilize your domestic life.

By 5:30, you're showered and wearing actual pants instead of the basketball shorts that constitute your weekend uniform. You've even put on a t-shirt without any stains, which feels like formal wear at this point.

The building's ancient intercom crackles to life at exactly 6:03 PM.

"Hi! It's Hanni, Danielle's friend?"

Her voice has this musical quality even through the shitty speaker system. You buzz her up and find yourself actually nervous, which is ridiculous. It's just some girl who needs a place to crash during a storm. No big deal.

You open the door before she can knock, and—

Fuck.

Okay, let's pause here for a moment, because you need to process what you're seeing. Danielle definitely undersold this situation when she said "super sweet." Standing in your hallway is quite possibly the most beautiful girl you've ever seen in person, and that includes the time you accidentally ended up at a fashion week after-party and felt like an anthropologist studying a different species.

Hanni Pham is petite - maybe 5'3" in the sneakers she's wearing - with long dark hair that somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that's been building all day. Her skin has this natural glow that girls probably spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve with makeup. She's wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversized cardigan that manages to be both cozy and effortlessly stylish.

But it's her smile that really hits you. When she grins (and she's grinning right now as she looks up at you) her whole face transforms. It's one of those smiles that makes you want to say something funny just to see it again.

"You must be the famous roommate.”

"Famous might be overselling it," you reply, stepping aside to let her in. "I prefer 'locally notorious' or 'generally adequate.'"

She laughs - actually laughs, not just that polite chuckle people give when they're being nice - and the sound does something weird to your chest.

"I'm Hanni," she says, extending her hand like you're meeting at a business conference instead of your apartment doorway.

"I know," you say, shaking her hand and immediately noticing how soft her skin is. "Danielle's mentioned you. I'm—"

"The mysterious roommate who apparently has his life together enough to have a spare room on short notice," she interrupts with a teasing smile. "Danielle was very impressed by your domestic capabilities."

"Danielle has clearly never seen me try to fold a fitted sheet," you say, grabbing her suitcase. "But I can order takeout with the best of them, so we won't starve."

She follows you into the apartment, and you watch her take it all in. Your place suddenly feels inadequate under her gaze - not messy, but definitely lacking in sophistication. She doesn't seem to mind, though. If anything, she looks comfortable immediately, like she's one of those people who can adapt to any environment.

"This is really nice," she says, and she sounds genuine. "Much better than the hostel I was staying at last week in Austin. There was this guy who brought his guitar to the common room every night and knew exactly one and a half songs."

"Let me guess—'Wonderwall' and half of 'Sweet Caroline'?"

"Close. 'Wonderwall' and the first verse of 'Hey There Delilah.'" She drops onto your couch like she belongs there. "It was painful. I started taking long walks just to avoid the evening concert."

You find yourself grinning as you set her suitcase by the hallway. There's something immediately easy about talking to her, like you've known each other longer than thirty seconds.

"So Danielle says you're traveling around before starting your career," you say, settling into the armchair across from her. "What's the master plan?"

"Oh, there's no master plan," she says with a laugh. "That's kind of the point. I graduated in May and realized I had spent four years studying business management and had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life. So instead of jumping straight into the corporate grind, I decided to see the world for a while."

"Business management?" You raise an eyebrow. "Let me guess: parental expectations?"

"Bingo." She tucks her legs under her on the couch. "Asian parents, you know? They had my life planned out from birth. Good grades, good college, good job, good marriage, good grandchildren. The whole timeline."

"And you said 'thanks but no thanks'?"

"More like 'thanks but maybe later.'" She runs her hand through her hair, and you try not to notice how the movement makes her cardigan slip slightly off one shoulder. "I'm not rebelling exactly. I just want to figure out who I am when I'm not following someone else's script."

There's something refreshing about her honesty. Most people your age are either pretending they have everything figured out or wallowing in quarter-life crisis melodrama. Hanni seems genuinely comfortable with not knowing what comes next.

"So where have you been so far?" you ask.

Her face lights up. "God, everywhere. I started in California—spent a month in San Francisco, then drove down the coast. Did the whole Southwest thing, then back up to Colorado for a while. I was in New Orleans for two weeks, which was incredible but also nearly killed my liver."

"And now you're here because...?"

"I'm flying to Germany next month to start learning the language properly. And then this storm happened..." She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the sky is getting increasingly ominous.

"Germany, huh? Then what?"

"Portugal, maybe Brazil after that. I'm trying to learn German and Portuguese simultaneously, which my brain is not appreciating." She laughs. "But I figure if I'm going to wander around aimlessly, I might as well collect some languages while I do it."

You're impressed despite yourself. While you've been grinding through your marketing job and spending weekends recovering from the week, she's been living like a character in one of those indie movies about finding yourself.

"That's actually amazing," you say, and you mean it. "Most people just talk about doing something like that."

"Most people are smarter than me," she replies with that killer smile. "They understand things like 'financial security' and 'long-term planning.'"

"Overrated concepts," you say. "I've got both of those things and I still spend my Saturdays wondering if I'm wasting my life."

She tilts her head, studying you with those dark eyes. "Are you? Wasting your life?"

It's a more serious question than the conversation has been up to this point, and you find yourself actually thinking about it instead of deflecting with humor.

"I don't know," you admit. "I've got a decent job, this place, good friends. On paper it all looks fine. But sometimes I feel like I'm just going through the motions, you know? Like I'm waiting for my real life to start."

"And when do you think that happens?" she asks. "The real life part?"

"No idea. Maybe when I figure out what I actually want instead of just what I'm supposed to want."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. "That's exactly why I left. Everyone kept asking me what my five-year plan was, and I realized I couldn't even figure out what I wanted for lunch most days."

Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer this time. The light coming through your windows has taken on that weird greenish quality that means the storm is getting serious.

"Speaking of lunch," you say, standing up, "or dinner at this point—are you hungry? I was planning to order something before the weather gets too crazy for delivery."

"Starving," she admits. "I haven't eaten since this morning. What are the options?"

You grab your phone and start scrolling through delivery apps. "Thai, Chinese, pizza, Mexican, Indian... There's this Vietnamese place that's actually incredible if you're feeling adventurous."

"Vietnamese sounds perfect," she says immediately. "I haven't had good pho in weeks."

"You know pho?" You look up from your phone, surprised.

"I'm half Vietnamese," she says with an amused smile. "Did Danielle not mention that? Pham's my dad's name."

"She definitely left out some key details," you mutter while pulling up the Vietnamese restaurant's menu, feeling slightly embarrassed. Of course Hanni Pham is Vietnamese. You're usually more observant than this, but something about her presence is scrambling your normal social awareness.

"It's okay," she says, clearly picking up on your embarrassment. "I get it all the time.” She leans forward to look at your phone screen. "Oh my god, they have bun bo hue. Order that for me, please. I've been craving it for months."

"You got it." You add it to the cart, then look up at her. "Well, the dual nationality thing must be cool, I guess.”

"Sometimes. I got really good at code-switching depending on which side of the family I was with." She grins.

"And? Which one is actually you?"

She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Both, I think. Neither. Someone new." She looks at you directly. "That's part of why I'm doing this whole travel thing. Trying to figure out who I am when I'm not performing for anyone."

There's something vulnerable in the admission, and you feel a unexpected urge to tell her that whoever she is right now, sitting on your couch talking about identity and soup preferences, she's pretty fucking great.

Instead, you finish placing the food order and set your phone aside. "Well, for what it's worth, the version of you that's here right now seems pretty authentic to me."

She gives you a look that's hard to read - surprised, maybe? Like she wasn't expecting you to say something that direct.

"Thanks," she says softly. "That's... actually really nice to hear."

The moment hangs between you for a few seconds before another rumble of thunder breaks it. This one's close enough to rattle the windows.

"Jesus," you mutter, walking over to look outside. The sky has gone full apocalypse mode - dark green-black clouds rolling in like something out of a disaster movie. "This is going to be intense."

Hanni joins you at the window, standing close enough that you can smell her perfume - light and citrusy that makes you want to lean closer.

"I've never been in a real storm like this," she admits.

"You're in for a treat," you say. "We'll probably lose power at some point."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. When storms like this hit, the grid just gives up." You glance at her. "You're not scared of storms, are you?"

"No, just... inexperienced." She looks up at you with a grin. "You'll have to teach me how to survive a proper thunderstorm."

There's something in the way she says it that makes your pulse quicken. Maybe it's the proximity, or the intimate lighting as the sky darkens, or just the general chemistry that's been building since she walked in. But suddenly the idea of being trapped in your apartment with Hanni Pham for three days doesn't seem like an inconvenience at all.

"First lesson," you say, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation instead of how close she's standing, "stock up on essentials before the power goes out."

"Which are?"

"Candles, flashlights, batteries, booze." You tick them off on your fingers. "I've got the first three covered, but we might need to make a liquor store run."

"What kind of booze?" she asks, clearly amused by your priorities.

"Wine for sophisticated storm watching, whiskey for if things get really bad, beer for everything else."

"You've really thought this through."

"I've lived here for three years. You learn to prepare for these things."

She's still standing close, looking up at you with those dark eyes, and you're starting to realize that the storm outside might not be the only dangerous weather system you need to worry about this weekend.

Your phone buzzes with a delivery notification, breaking the moment.

"Food's here," you announce, probably more loudly than necessary.

"Perfect timing," she says, but she doesn't immediately move away from the window. "Before we eat, should we make that liquor store run? It's only going to get worse out there."

You check the time on your phone. 7:15 PM. "Good call. There's a place around the corner that stays open late."

"Let me grab my jacket," she says, heading for her suitcase.

Five minutes later you're both hurrying down the sidewalk as the wind picks up. Leaves and debris are starting to swirl around, and the air has that electric feeling that comes right before a big storm hits.

———

The liquor store is busy (apparently you're not the only ones with the idea to stock up before the weather gets nasty). Hanni gravitates toward the wine section while you grab a bottle of decent whiskey and a twelve-pack of beer.

"What do you think?" she asks, holding up a bottle of red wine. "I don't know much about wine, but this one has a pretty label."

You look at the bottle - some mid-range Cabernet that's probably perfectly fine. "Pretty label is a valid selection criterion," you say. "But if we're going to be storm-bound for three days, we might want something a little more special."

You lead her over to a section with slightly better wines and pick up a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. "This one's got character. Good for drinking while watching the world end outside your window."

"You really know wine?" she asks, looking impressed.

"I know just enough to sound like I do," you admit. "My ex was into wine, so I picked up some basics through osmosis."

"Ah, the ex." Her tone is light, but you catch something in her expression. "Recent?"

"Few months ago. Nothing dramatic, just... ran out of steam." You realize you probably shouldn't be talking about your ex-girlfriend to the beautiful girl you just met, but Hanni seems genuinely curious rather than uncomfortable.

"That's the worst kind of breakup," she says sympathetically. "When there's no big fight or betrayal, just the slow realization that you're not right for each other."

"Exactly." You're surprised by how well she gets it. "How about you? Leaving a trail of broken hearts across America?"

She laughs. "Hardly. I was dating someone senior year, but that ended when I decided to do this whole travel thing. He wasn't exactly supportive of the idea."

"His loss," you say, and immediately regret how that sounds. Too forward, too obvious.

But Hanni just smiles. "Thanks. I think so too."

You grab the wine and head to the checkout, where the cashier is grumbling about having to stay open during the storm.

"Y'all better get home quick," he says as he rings you up. "Weather service just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Gonna be nasty out there."

As if to emphasize his point, a flash of lightning illuminates the store windows, followed immediately by a boom of thunder that makes everyone jump.

"Shit," you mutter, grabbing the bag. "We need to move."

The walk back to your apartment is like something out of a movie. The wind is whipping hard enough to make walking difficult, and the first fat raindrops are starting to fall. By the time you reach your building, you're both laughing breathlessly at the absurdity of racing a storm.

"That was exhilarating," Hanni says as you climb the stairs to your floor, her cheeks flushed from the wind and exercise.

"That was just the warm-up," you tell her, unlocking your door. "The real show hasn't started yet."

Inside, your apartment feels like a sanctuary. The food delivery is waiting outside your door (the delivery guy apparently decided not to stick around for a tip in this weather) and you bring everything inside just as the rain really starts coming down.

"Perfect timing," Hanni says, already unpacking the Vietnamese food on your coffee table.

You open the bottle of wine while she sets up the food, and within minutes you're both settled on the couch with steaming bowls of soup and glasses of the Tempranillo.

"Oh my god," Hanni moans after her first spoonful of bun bo hue. "This is exactly what I needed. I don't know how they get the broth so perfect."

"Good choice?" you ask, settling back with your own bowl.

"Amazing choice. You clearly know your Vietnamese food."

"I know good food in general," you say. "It's one of my few useful skills."

Outside, the storm is really starting to intensify. Rain is hammering against the windows, and the lightning is getting more frequent. The thunder is almost constant now, a low rumble punctuated by sharp cracks that make the building shake slightly.

"Jesus," Hanni says, looking toward the windows. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"

"That's normal for a storm this size," you tell her, but privately you're a little impressed by how intense it's getting. "We're safe in here. These old buildings are built to last."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she's trying to play it cool. You notice her flinch slightly at a particularly loud thunder clap.

"First real storm nerves?" you ask gently.

"Maybe a little," she admits. "I know it's silly, but I keep expecting something to fall on the building."

"Not silly at all. The first time I experienced a storm like this, I spent the whole night awake thinking the roof was going to cave in."

"Really?"

"Really. I was convinced every lightning flash was going to fry the building's electrical system and trap me in a powerless hellscape."

"And did it?"

"Well, the power did go out around midnight, but the hellscape part was mostly in my imagination."

She laughs, relaxing slightly. "Okay, so what actually happens when the power goes out?"

"Candles, flashlights, and a lot of sitting around in the dark talking. It's actually kind of nice once you get used to it. Very... primitive."

"Primitive how?"

You consider how to explain it. "Like, suddenly all the modern distractions disappear. No TV, no internet, no phone charging. You're just stuck with whoever you're with and whatever conversation you can make."

"That doesn't sound so bad," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Especially with good company."

There's something in the way she says it that makes you look at her more carefully. She's got this slight smile playing around her lips, and she's holding your gaze in a way that feels deliberate.

Okay, you think. So that's definitely flirting.

"The company seems pretty good so far," you agree, matching her tone.

"Just pretty good?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'll have to work on that."

Before you can respond, there's a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it feels like it's inside the apartment. Both of you jump, and then you're laughing at your own reactions.

"Okay, that one was close," you admit.

"How close is close?" Hanni asks, moving slightly closer to you on the couch.

"Close enough that we're probably going to lose power soon," you say, acutely aware of the warmth of her leg against yours.

As if summoned by your words, the lights flicker.

"Shit," you mutter.

They flicker again, holding for a moment, then go out completely.

The apartment plunges into darkness so complete you can't see your hand in front of your face. The only illumination comes from the occasional lightning flashes outside.

"Well," Hanni's voice comes from beside you, sounding remarkably calm, "I guess this is where the primitive part starts."

You fumble for your phone's flashlight and use it to navigate to the kitchen, where you keep the emergency candles. Within a few minutes, you've got several candles lit around the living room, casting everything in warm, flickering light.

"Better?" you ask, settling back onto the couch.

"Much," she says. "This is actually kind of romantic."

She says it casually, but there's something underneath the words that makes your pulse quicken.

"Romantic disaster preparedness," you say. "I should put that on my dating profile."

"You'd get a lot of matches during storm season."

"Is that your type? Guys who are prepared for natural disasters?"

She pretends to consider this seriously. "I don't know. I'm still figuring out what my type is."

“You've really never figured out your type?"

"I mean, I thought I had. But then I realized all my previous relationships were based on what I thought I was supposed to want, not what I actually wanted."

"What did you think you were supposed to want?"

"You know, the whole package. Ambitious guy, stable career, five-year plan, ready to settle down and start checking off life milestones." She takes a sip of wine. "Turns out that bores me to tears."

"And what do you actually want?"

She's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the candlelight. "I'm still figuring that out. But I think I want someone who doesn't have it all figured out either. Someone who's okay with not knowing what comes next."

There's something charged in the way she's looking at you, like she's not just talking in hypotheticals anymore.

"That sounds terrifying and appealing in equal measure," you say.

"The best things usually are."

The storm outside is reaching its peak now. The rain is coming down so hard it sounds like static, and the lightning is almost continuous. But inside your apartment, with the candles flickering and the wine starting to warm your blood, it feels incredibly intimate.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says, shifting to face you more directly on the couch.

"Shoot."

"When Danielle asked if I could stay here, did she mention anything about... me? Specifically?"

"Just that you were sweet and I'd like you," you say. "Why?"

"Nothing, just..." She trails off, looking suddenly unsure of herself.

"Just what?"

"I think she might have been matchmaking," she admits with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "She's been trying to set me up with people for months, saying I need to stop being so picky and give nice guys a chance."

"And you think I'm the latest nice guy she's throwing at you?"

"Are you? A nice guy?"

You consider the question. "I try to be. Though I'm starting to think 'nice' might not be what you're looking for."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling," you say, holding her gaze. "You don't strike me as someone who wants safe and predictable."

"You're right," she says quietly. "I don't."

The admission hangs between you in the candlelit air. You're both aware that the conversation has shifted into more dangerous territory, but neither of you seems inclined to back away from it.

"So what do you want?" you ask.

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her wine glass. When she looks back up, there's something different in her expression: more open, more vulnerable.

"I want to feel something," she says simply. "I've spent so much time doing what I was supposed to do, being who I was supposed to be. I want to know what it feels like to just... follow my instincts for once."

"And what are your instincts telling you right now?"

She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully. "That this is probably a terrible idea, but I don't care."

"What's a terrible idea?"

Instead of answering, she reaches out and traces her finger along your jawline. Her touch is soft but deliberate.

"This," she whispers.

You catch her hand in yours, holding it against your cheek. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says. "We just met. This is crazy. I'm leaving in three days. There are probably a dozen reasons why we shouldn't."

"Probably more than a dozen."

"So why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world?"

You don't have an answer for that, because she's right. Despite having known her for less than three hours, this feels inevitable somehow. Like you've been moving toward this moment since she first smiled at you in the hallway.

"Maybe," you say carefully, "we don't overthink it. Maybe we just see what happens."

"What happens if what happens is that I fall for you and then have to leave?"

"What happens if we spend the next three days being careful and polite and miss out on something amazing?"

She considers this, her thumb stroking across your cheek where she's still touching you.

"You make a good point," she says.

"I have my moments."

"So what are you suggesting? That we just... go with it?"

"I'm suggesting that we're two adults who are clearly attracted to each other, trapped in an apartment during the storm of the century, with excellent wine and nowhere else to be." You turn your head slightly to press a kiss to her palm. "I'm suggesting that three days can be a lifetime if you let them be."

Her breath catches at the kiss, and you feel something shift in the air between you.

"Three days," she repeats.

"Three days."

"And then I leave."

"And then you leave."

"And we don't make any promises or plans or expectations."

"None."

She's quiet for another moment, studying your face in the candlelight. Then she smiles - that incredible smile that made you forget how to think when you first saw it.

"Okay," she says. "Three days."

And then she's kissing you.

It starts soft, tentative, like she's testing the waters. But when you respond, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, she melts into you with a little sigh that makes your heart race.

She tastes like wine and something uniquely her, and when she runs her tongue along your lower lip, you actually groan against her mouth.

"Fuck," you breathe when you finally break apart.

"Good fuck or bad fuck?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.

"Very, very good fuck."

She grins and kisses you again, harder this time, her hands tangling in your hair. You pull her closer until she's practically in your lap, and the feel of her body against yours is intoxicating.

Outside, the storm rages on, but you're barely aware of it anymore. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms, the way she kisses like she's hungry for it, the little sounds she makes when you trace your lips along her neck.

"This is crazy," she murmurs against your ear, but her hands are already working at the buttons of your shirt.

"Completely insane," you agree, sliding your hands under her cardigan to find the soft skin of her waist.

"We should probably slow down," she says, even as she's pushing your shirt off your shoulders.

"Absolutely," you say, lifting her cardigan over her head. "Very sensible."

She's wearing a simple black bra underneath, and the sight of her in the candlelight makes your mouth go dry. She's even more beautiful than you imagined, all soft curves and smooth skin.

"Fuck, Hanni," you breathe, running your hands over her shoulders, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts.

She arches into your touch, her head falling back as you trail kisses down her throat. "This is definitely not slowing down," she gasps.

"Do you want to stop?" you ask, pulling back to look at her.

Her eyes are dark with desire, her lips swollen from kissing. "God, no," she whispers. "I want... I want you to touch me everywhere."

The raw honesty in her voice undoes something in your chest. You cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, pouring all your want and wonder into it.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"Bedroom?" you suggest.

"Bedroom," she agrees.

You blow out most of the candles, leaving just one to light your way, and lead her down the hallway to your room. In the doorway, she stops and looks around.

"This is very you," she says with a smile.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's perfect," she says, and then she's kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed.

You sit on the edge and pull her between your legs, your hands settling on her hips. She runs her fingers through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that makes you shiver.

"I can't believe this is happening," she says softly.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No. It's just... I don't usually do this. Sleep with someone I just met."

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupts. "God, I really want to. It's just new for me."

"What's new? The one-night stand thing?"

"The following-my-instincts thing," she says. "I've never just... acted on attraction like this before."

You smooth your hands up her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her bra. "How does it feel so far?"

"Terrifying," she admits. "And incredible."

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

"The best kind of terrifying," she says, and then she's pushing you back on the bed and climbing on top of you.

The feeling of her straddling your hips, her hair falling around her face as she looks down at you, is almost overwhelming. You reach up to trace the line of her jaw, and she turns her head to kiss your palm just like you did to her earlier.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to," you say, sitting up so you're face to face with her. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

She looks at you like she's trying to decide whether to believe you. "Really?"

"Really."

"Even with my hair all messy from the storm?"

"Especially with your hair all messy from the storm."

She smiles and kisses you again, and this time there's something different in it; less desperate, more tender.

"I like you," she whispers against your lips. "I really, really like you."

"I like you too," you whisper back.

"Even though I'm leaving in three days?"

"Especially because you're leaving in three days."

She pulls back to look at you. "What do you mean?"

"It means we don't have time to overthink this or talk ourselves out of it," you say. "It means we can just be here, right now, with each other."

"No expectations."

"No expectations."

"No promises."

"No promises."

"Just this."

"Just this."

She nods, and then she's kissing you again, and her hands are everywhere - your chest, your shoulders, your arms. You let your own hands explore her body, mapping the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the way she shivers when you trace patterns on her back.

Time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. One moment you're kissing slowly, savoring each other, and the next you're pulling at clothes with urgent need. But there's no rush, no pressure. Just two people discovering each other by candlelight while the storm provides the soundtrack.

When you finally reach for the clasp of her bra, she covers your hands with hers.

"Wait," she says softly.

Your heart sinks. "Are you sure? We can stop—"

"No, it's not that," she says quickly. "I just... can we talk for a minute first?"

"Of course." You settle back against the headboard, pulling her with you so she's curled against your side.

"This is going to sound weird," she says, tracing patterns on your chest with her finger. "But I've never done anything like this before. I've had sex, obviously, but never like this. Never just because I wanted to, without it meaning something specific."

"What did it usually mean?"

"That we were in a relationship. That it was leading somewhere. That it was part of a plan." She looks up at you. "This doesn't mean any of those things, and that's scary but also... liberating?"

"You don't have to justify it," you tell her. "We can do whatever feels right."

"What feels right is being here with you," she says. "But I'm nervous."

"About the sex?"

"About being vulnerable with someone I barely know. About letting myself feel something for someone I'm going to leave."

You stroke her hair, thinking about how to respond. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think vulnerability is brave, not scary. And I think feeling something - even if it's temporary - is better than feeling nothing at all."

She's quiet for a moment. "You're very wise for someone I met three hours ago."

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..."

"And what about you? Are you nervous?"

You consider lying, playing it cool, but something about her honesty deserves the same in return.

"Terrified," you admit. "But not for the reasons you'd think."

"What reasons?"

"Because I like you. Like, really like you. And I'm scared that three days with you is going to ruin me for everyone else."

She lifts her head to look at you. "Would that be so bad?"

"Ask me in three days."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what do we do with all this nervousness?"

"We take it slow," you say. "We don't do anything that doesn't feel completely right. And we remember that this is supposed to be fun."

"Fun," she repeats. "I like fun."

"Good, because I'm planning to show you the time of your life."

"Big talk," she says with a grin. "Can you back it up?"

"Give me three days and find out."

She laughs and tilts her head up to kiss you. "Okay," she says against your lips. "Show me."

The next hour unfolds like a dream. You take your time with each other, talking and laughing between kisses, learning what makes each other sigh and gasp. There's something magical about discovering someone new, about the way unfamiliar touches can make your body shiver.

When you finally do remove her bra, it's with reverent slowness, your eyes locked on hers as you reveal more of her beautiful body. She's perfect - small, firm breasts with dusky nipples that harden under your gaze.

"Fuck," you breathe, and she blushes prettily.

"Is that good?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Instead of answering with words, you lean down and take one nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it until she arches off the bed with a gasp.

"Oh god," she moans, her hands fisting in your hair. "That's... that's really good."

You spend long minutes worshipping her breasts, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction, learning what makes her writhe beneath you. She's incredibly responsive, her back arching and her breath coming in short gasps as you discover all her sensitive spots.

"My turn," she pants, pushing at your shoulders until you're on your back.

She straddles your hips again, and the feeling of her bare breasts pressed against your chest as she kisses you is almost overwhelming. Her hands explore your body with growing confidence, tracing the lines of your muscles, finding the places that make you groan.

When she works her way down your chest with kisses and gentle bites, you think you might lose your mind. She's thorough and deliberate, paying attention to your reactions and filing away everything that makes you respond.

“Hanni," you gasp when she reaches the waistband of your jeans.

"Hmm?" she hums against your skin.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," she says, looking up at you with dark eyes. "I want to taste you."

She won. "Fuck, yes. Please."

She smiles and makes quick work of your jeans and boxers, leaving you completely naked in the candlelight. For a moment she just looks at you, taking in your body with obvious appreciation.

"You're beautiful too," she says softly, running her hands up your thighs.

"Guys aren't beautiful," you protest.

"You are," she insists. "You're perfect."

And then she's touching you, wrapping her small hand around your length, and coherent thought becomes impossible. She starts slow, just exploring, learning the shape and feel of you. When she finally takes you into her mouth, you literally see stars.

"Jesus Christ," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets.

She's clearly not super experienced, but what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm. She's paying attention to your reactions, adjusting her rhythm and pressure based on your moans and gasps.

"Hanni, fuck, that's incredible," you manage to say.

She hums around you, the vibration making you jerk beneath her. When she pulls off your cock to catch her breath, her lips are swollen and slick.

"Good?" she asks with a satisfied smile.

"So fucking good," you tell her. "Come here."

You pull her up to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. The storm outside seems to have calmed slightly, but you barely notice. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms.

"I want to touch you," you murmur against her neck.

"Please," she breathes.

You roll her onto her back and trail kisses down her body, taking time to appreciate every inch of soft skin. When you reach the waistband of her jeans, you look up at her for permission.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Please, yes."

You remove her jeans and panties slowly, savoring the reveal of her body. She's perfect everywhere – thick, smooth legs hiding the paradise you are about to discover.

"My turn to explore," you say, settling between her legs.

The first touch of your tongue makes her cry out and arch off the bed. She's already wet, and she tastes incredible; so sweet and musky and uniquely her.

"Oh god, oh fuck," she gasps as you find a rhythm that makes her thighs shake. "That's so good, don't stop, please don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You lose yourself in the task of learning her body, finding the spots that make her writhe and the pressure that makes her moan. She's incredibly responsive, her hips rolling against your mouth as she gets closer to the edge.

"I'm gonna come," she warns. "Fuck, I'm gonna come so hard."

You double your efforts, and within seconds she's falling apart beneath you, her back arching as waves of pleasure crash over her. You work her through it, gentling your touch as she comes down from the high.

When you finally lift your head, she's looking at you with wonder.

"Holy shit," she breathes. "That was... I've never... holy shit."

"Good?" you ask, pressing kisses to her inner thighs.

"Incredible. Amazing. Life-changing." She pulls you up to kiss her deeply. "I need you inside me. Right now."

"Condom," she manages to say.

"Nightstand," you say, reaching over you to fumble in the drawer.

The practicalities of protection handled, you position yourself at her entrance and look into her eyes.

"You sure?" you ask one more time.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, pulling you down for a kiss.

You enter her cunt slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation. She's incredibly tight and warm, and it takes all your self-control not to lose it immediately.

"Fuck," you groan against her neck. "You feel amazing."

"So do you," she pants, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Move, please move."

You start slowly, finding a rhythm that has both of you moaning. There's something perfect about the way your bodies fit together, like you were made for this.

"Harder," she gasps after a few minutes. "I need more."

You pick up the pace, driving into her with more force. The sound of skin against skin mingles with your gasps and moans, creating a symphony of pleasure that drowns out the storm outside.

"Yes, fuck, yes," she cries, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you deeper. "Just like that, don't stop."

You can feel her getting close again, her inner walls starting to flutter around you and you're not far behind: the combination of her tight heat and the sounds she's making is pushing you rapidly toward the edge.

"Come with me," you gasp, reaching between your bodies to find her clit.

The added stimulation is all she needs. She cries out your name as she comes, her body clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses that trigger your own release.

You collapse on top of her, both of you breathing hard and trembling from the intensity. For a long moment, you just lie there wrapped in each other's arms, coming back to earth.

"Wow," Hanni finally whispers.

"Yeah," you agree, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Wow."

You clean up quickly and settle back into bed, pulling her against your side. The candle has burned low, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"The storm's getting quieter," she observes, her head on your chest.

"Mmm," you hum, too content to care much about the weather.

"So this is what it's like," she says softly.

"What what's like?"

"Following your instincts. Doing something just because it feels right." She tilts her head to look at you. "I can see why people get addicted to it."

"Addicted to what? Good sex?"

"Addicted to feeling alive," she corrects. "I haven't felt this... present... in years."

You stroke her hair, understanding exactly what she means. "It's the storm," you say. "It strips away all the normal distractions and forces you to just be where you are."

"Is that what this is? Storm madness?"

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

She considers this. "No," she says finally. "I don't think it does."

You're both quiet for a while, listening to the rain that's finally starting to ease up outside. The thunder is more distant now, rolling away toward the east.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Anything."

"What are you thinking right now? Really thinking, not just the polite answer."

You're quiet for a moment, trying to articulate the complex mix of emotions churning in your chest.

"I'm thinking that this is the best first day of anything I've ever had," you say finally. "And I'm thinking that two more days isn't nearly enough."

"And?"

"And I'm trying not to think about what happens after that."

She nods against your chest. "I'm thinking the same thing."

"What else are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I could get used to this very quickly," she admits. "Being with someone who makes me feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like myself. Like the person I am when nobody else is watching."

You tip her chin up so you can see her face in the dim candlelight. "That person is pretty incredible."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

She smiles and settles back against you. "Two more days," she murmurs, half to herself.

"Two more days," you agree.

But as you lie there holding her, listening to her breathing even out as she drifts toward sleep, you're already dreading the moment when you'll have to let her go.

Day Two: Dreaming

You wake up to silence.

Not just quiet; actual silence. No hum of the air conditioning, no soft whir of the refrigerator, no digital clocks glowing in the darkness. Just the gentle sound of rain still pattering against the windows and the warm weight of Hanni curled against your side.

The power is definitely out.

You check your phone: 7:23 AM, and the battery is at sixty percent. Outside, the world looks washed clean. The storm has passed, leaving behind a gray morning and the kind of pristine air that only comes after nature has thrown a proper tantrum.

Hanni stirs beside you, making a soft sound of contentment as she presses closer to your warmth. She's wearing one of your shirts. Now you can't help but think that you'd like to see her wearing every single one of your shirts throughout the nights.

"Morning," you murmur into her hair.

"Mmm," she hums without opening her eyes. "What time is it?"

"About seven-thirty."

"Too early," she decides, nuzzling into your neck. "Let's stay in bed forever."

"I like that plan," you say, tightening your arms around her. "Unfortunately, without power, it's going to get pretty cold in here eventually."

That gets her attention. She lifts her head, blinking in the dim light. "Still no electricity?"

"Nope. Welcome to day two of our primitive survival experience."

She stretches like a cat, and you can't help but admire the way the movement makes her back arch. Even first thing in the morning, with her hair messy and her makeup long gone, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

"How do you feel?" you ask, suddenly worried that she might regret last night in the clear light of morning.

She settles back against you with a smile that erases all your concerns. "Like I slept better than I have in months," she says. "How do you feel?"

"Like I don't want to get out of this bed."

"Then don't," she says simply, trailing her fingers across your chest. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could starve to death."

"Romantic starvation," she muses. "There are worse ways to go."

"Very romantic. We could become one of those tragic love stories people write songs about."

"The Storm Weekend Lovers," she suggests dramatically. "Found months later, still in each other's arms, beautiful corpses who chose love over sustenance."

"That's morbid as hell," you laugh.

"But romantic," she insists, grinning at you.

You kiss her forehead, marveling again at how easy everything feels with her. "Okay, before we commit to romantic death by starvation, let me see what the food situation actually looks like."

"Fine," she sighs dramatically. "Abandon me for practical concerns."

"I'll make it up to you with breakfast."

"What kind of breakfast can you make without power?"

"You'll see. Trust me."

You reluctantly extract yourself from the warm cocoon of blankets and Hanni's arms. The apartment is noticeably cooler without the heating system running, and you can see your breath slightly in the dim light.

"Jesus, it's cold," you mutter, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt.

"Come back," Hanni calls from the bed, having stolen all the blankets the moment you left. "I'm freezing without my personal heater."

"Give me ten minutes to survey our survival options," you tell her. "Then I'll come warm you up properly."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

In the kitchen, you assess your options by phone flashlight. The gas stove still works (one advantage of having an older apartment with gas appliances). You've got eggs, bread, coffee that you can make in your French press, and some fruit that doesn't need refrigeration.

More importantly, you've got camping gear in the closet from a phase last year where you thought you might become an outdoorsy person. That means a battery-powered radio, a camp stove with fuel canisters, and some warm clothing.

You get the coffee started first (because priorities) then set up the camp stove on the balcony to supplement the gas range. The morning air is crisp and clean, washed fresh by the storm.

By the time you return to the bedroom with a tray of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast, Hanni has managed to make herself even more beautiful despite (or maybe because of) being wrapped in blankets like a burrito.

"You actually made breakfast," she says, sounding impressed.

"I told you to trust me." You set the tray on the nightstand and climb back into bed. "Coffee, eggs, toast, and..." You produce a small container from your back pocket. "Strawberry jam from that fancy place downtown."

"You had fancy jam just lying around?"

"I bought it for my ex and never used it," you admit. "Seemed like a waste to throw it out."

"Well, her loss is my gain," Hanni says, unwrapping herself enough to reach for the coffee. "Oh my god, this smells amazing."

You settle back against the headboard and watch her take her first sip. The way she closes her eyes and makes a little sound of pleasure makes you think about last night, which makes you think about things you definitely shouldn't be thinking about while trying to eat breakfast.

"So what's the plan for today?" she asks, curling up next to you with her coffee.

"Depends how long the power stays out. If it comes back on in a few hours, we can pretty much do whatever we want. If not..." You shrug. "We get creative."

"I vote for not," she says immediately.

"You want the power to stay out?"

"I want an excuse to spend the whole day in bed with you," she says with that direct honesty that keeps catching you off guard.

"We don't need an excuse for that."

"Don't we?" She looks at you over her coffee cup. "I mean, what would we normally do on a Saturday? If we were dating, I mean, or if this was... normal somehow."

It's a good question. What would you normally do? Probably sleep in, maybe grab brunch somewhere, do some shopping or see a movie. The kind of casual weekend activities that couples do when they're still figuring each other out.

"Honestly?" you say. "I'd probably be overthinking everything. Wondering if you were having a good time, whether I should hold your hand, when would be the right time to kiss you."

"And instead?"

"Instead I already know you taste like strawberry jam and make the most incredible sounds when you come."

She nearly chokes on her coffee, laughing. "Jesus, you can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to do things that aren't compatible with eating breakfast."

"What kind of things?"

She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand sliding under your shirt to rest on your chest. "Things that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of those sounds you mentioned."

Your pulse kicks up immediately. "We should probably finish eating first."

"Should we?" she asks, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Food is important for maintaining energy levels."

"I can think of other ways to work up an appetite," she murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your neck.

The combination of her lips on your skin and her hand moving lower makes it very difficult to remember why breakfast was important.

"Hanni," you start, but she silences you by biting gently at your earlobe.

"I've been thinking," she whispers against your ear, "about last night. About how you felt inside me."

All coherent thought evaporates. "Yeah?"

"Mmm. And I've been wondering what it would feel like to wake up with you inside me. To start the day connected like that."

"Fuck," you breathe, your body responding immediately to the image she's painting.

"Is that a yes?" she asks, pulling back to look at you with a smile that's equal parts innocent and wicked.

"That's a definitely yes," you manage to say.

She grins and starts pushing the breakfast tray toward the nightstand. "Then breakfast can wait."

What follows is slow and lazy and perfect. Morning sex with soft gray light filtering through the windows and no urgency except the desire to be close to each other. You take your time exploring her body again, relearning all the places that make her sigh and arch beneath you.

"I love how you touch me," she whispers as you trace patterns on her inner thigh. "Like you're memorizing me."

"I am memorizing you," you admit, pressing kisses along her hipbone. "Every inch."

When you finally slide your cock inside her, it's with a sense of rightness that goes beyond the physical. She wraps her legs around your waist and pulls you close, and for a moment you just stay like that, connected and still.

"This is what I wanted," she says softly, her hands framing your face. "To start the day with you."

You move together slowly, building pleasure with deliberate care rather than desperate need. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond just sex: it's tender and vulnerable and real.

When you both finally fall apart, it's with quiet gasps and whispered names rather than the loud cries of the night before. Afterward, you stay connected, neither of you wanting to break the spell.

"Now I'm hungry," Hanni announces eventually, making you laugh.

"Good thing I made breakfast."

"You're very practical for someone who just rocked my world."

"I'm a man of many talents."

She stretches beneath you, catlike and satisfied. "I'm beginning to notice that."

You finally separate and resettle with the breakfast tray between you. The coffee has gone lukewarm, but neither of you seems to care.

"So," Hanni says around a bite of toast, "what's the rest of our survival plan?"

"Well, assuming the power doesn't come back soon, we'll need to think about staying warm. The temperature's supposed to drop tonight."

"How much colder?"

"Forties, maybe high thirties."

"That's actually cold," she says, looking concerned. "I don't do well in cold weather."

"Don't worry," you tell her. "I've got camping gear, and worst case scenario, we can always share body heat."

"I like that plan."

"I thought you might."

You finish breakfast and decide to venture out to assess the neighborhood situation. Most of the power lines in the area are down, and you can see utility crews already working to restore service. The convenience store on the corner is closed, but the coffee shop two blocks away has a generator and is serving as an unofficial community center for people without power.

"This is kind of amazing," Hanni says as you walk through the neighborhood. "Look how everyone's just... helping each other."

She's right. Neighbors who probably barely speak normally are sharing generators and hot coffee. Someone has set up a grill in the parking lot behind the coffee shop and is cooking food for anyone who needs it.

"Crisis brings out the best in people sometimes," you say.

"Or the worst," she points out. "But this is definitely the best."

You grab some extra ice and batteries from the coffee shop, then head back to your apartment. By the time you return, it's almost noon and the temperature is starting to drop noticeably.

"Okay," you say, setting your supplies on the kitchen counter. "Time to implement phase two of the survival plan."

"Which is?"

"We build a fort."

"A fort?" She looks at you like you've lost your mind.

"A blanket fort," you clarify. "In the living room. We bring all the blankets and pillows from the bedroom, set up the camping gear, and create a warm, cozy space to wait out the power outage."

"That's..." She pauses, considering. "Actually brilliant."

"I told you I was practical."

The next hour is spent transforming your living room into what can only be described as the ultimate adult blanket fort. You use chairs and the coffee table to create a framework, then drape every blanket and sheet you own over it to create an enclosed space. Inside, you spread out camping mattresses and sleeping bags, set up battery-powered lanterns, and arrange pillows for maximum comfort.

"This is ridiculous," Hanni says, crawling inside the finished fort. "And I absolutely love it."

"Welcome to Fort Blackout," you announce, settling beside her. "Population: two."

"It's perfect," she says, snuggling against your side. "Like being kids again, but with the possibility of sex."

"The best kind of fort."

You spend the afternoon in your blanket sanctuary, talking and laughing and learning more about each other. Hanni tells you about growing up between two cultures, never quite fitting perfectly in either one. You tell her about your job and your friends and your general quarter-life confusion about what you're supposed to be doing with your existence.

"Do you ever think about just leaving?" she asks. "Packing up and starting over somewhere else?"

"Sometimes," you admit. "But I've got a good life here. Friends, decent job, this place. It seems stupid to throw that away just because I'm restless."

"But what if staying is what's stupid?" she challenges. "What if the life you have is just... fine... but not actually what you want?"

"What if I don't know what I want?"

"Then you travel until you figure it out," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not everyone can do what you're doing, Hanni. Some of us have responsibilities."

"What responsibilities?" she asks, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.

"I don't know... rent, career progression, not disappointing my parents..."

"Those aren't responsibilities," she says gently. "Those are expectations. Other people's expectations."

"What's the difference?"

"Responsibility is taking care of yourself and the people you love. Everything else is just pressure you're choosing to accept."

It's such a simple distinction, but it hits you hard. How much of your life is actually driven by what you want versus what you think you should want?

"You make it sound easy," you say.

"It's not easy," she admits. "It's terrifying. But it's also the most alive I've ever felt."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "Is that what last night was about? Feeling alive?"

"Partly," she says. "But not just that."

"What else?"

She turns to face you in the dim light of the fort. "Connection. Real connection with someone who sees me as I actually am, not as who they want me to be."

"And who are you actually?"

"I'm still figuring that out," she says with a smile. "But I know I'm someone who sleeps with beautiful strangers during storms and builds blanket forts and doesn't have a five-year plan."

"That sounds like a pretty good person to be."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

She kisses you then, soft and sweet, and you lose yourselves in each other again. There's something about the enclosed space of the fort that makes everything feel more intimate, more secret. Like you're the only two people in the world.

By evening, the temperature outside has dropped significantly, and you can feel the cold seeping into the apartment despite your fort construction. You've been keeping warm by staying close together, but it's clear you're going to need additional strategies for the night.

"I'm actually cold," Hanni admits, shivering slightly despite being wrapped in a sleeping bag.

"Time for phase three," you announce.

"Which is?"

"Hot food and alcohol."

You venture out of the fort to cook dinner on the camp stove - simple but warm soup and grilled cheese made on the gas stovetop. The bottle of wine from last night is joined by the whiskey you bought yesterday, and soon you're both warming up from the inside.

"This is actually fun," Hanni says, curled up next to you with a mug of soup. "Like camping, but with better amenities."

"Better company too," you say.

"You've done a lot of camping?"

"Some. I went through a phase where I thought I wanted to be outdoorsy. Bought all the gear, planned these elaborate trips, then realized I'm much more of an indoor person."

"What changed your mind?"

"Sleeping on the ground sucks," you say simply. "Also, I like showers and reliable wifi."

She laughs. "So you're a fake outdoorsman."

"Completely fake. I appreciate nature from a comfortable distance."

"Good thing I like fake outdoorsmen."

"Is that your type?"

"Apparently," she says, leaning over to kiss you.

The kiss tastes like wine and soup. When you break apart, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing, just... this is nice. Sitting here with you, talking about nothing important."

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to the kind of conversations I usually have. About careers and goals and where do you see yourself in five years." She makes a face. "I'm so sick of those conversations."

"What would you rather talk about?"

"Anything else. Favorite books, worst fears, what you wanted to be when you were seven years old."

"A dinosaur," you say immediately.

"What?"

"When I was seven, I wanted to be a dinosaur. Specifically a T-Rex."

She stares at you for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "That's the best answer anyone's ever given to that question."

"What about you? What did seven-year-old Hanni want to be?"

"A translator," she says. "I wanted to be one of those people at the United Nations who wear headphones and translate speeches in real time."

"That's… very specific for a seven-year-old."

"I was fascinated by the idea that you could help people understand each other just by knowing multiple languages. It seemed like magic."

"It kind of is magic," you say. "Being able to communicate across cultures like that."

"Maybe that's part of why I'm learning German and Portuguese. Chasing that childhood dream in a roundabout way."

"Are you good at languages?"

"Pretty good. I'm fluent in Vietnamese and English, obviously, and my Spanish is solid. German is harder because the grammar is insane, but I love how precise it is."

"Say something in German," you request.

"Like what?"

"Anything. I just want to hear how it sounds."

She thinks for a moment, then says something in German that sounds both melodic and strong.

"What did that mean?" you ask.

"I said, 'This is the strangest and most wonderful weekend of my life.'"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You're both quiet for a moment, the weight of the sentiment settling between you.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Always."

"What happens after tomorrow?"

It's the question you've both been avoiding, and hearing it out loud makes your chest tighten.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do we exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch? Do we pretend this never happened? Do we..." She trails off, looking uncertain for the first time since you've known her.

"I don't know," you admit. "What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know either. That's the problem."

You set down your mug and turn to face her fully. "Why is it a problem?"

"Because I'm leaving," she says. "Because this was supposed to be simple and uncomplicated, and it's turning into something that feels... not simple."

"What does it feel like?"

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. "It feels like the beginning of something important," she says finally. "And I don't know what to do with that."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know this wasn't supposed to be about feelings. But I can't help it. I really like you. Like, really really like you."

"I really like you too," you tell her, reaching out to take her hand. "More than I expected to. More than is probably smart."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I know I don't want to spend our last day together worrying about what comes after."

"You're right," she says, squeezing your hand. "Whatever happens, happens. Right now is what matters."

"Right now is pretty great."

"It really is."

She leans over to kiss you, and this time there's something different in it; a tenderness that goes beyond just attraction or desire. It's the kind of kiss that means something, whether you want it to or not.

"So," she says when you break apart, "how exactly are we going to stay warm tonight?"

"I have some ideas," you say with a grin.

"Involving the sleeping bags?"

"Definitely involving the sleeping bags."

"And shared body heat?"

"Lots of shared body heat."

"Show me," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You spend the next few minutes rearranging the fort, zipping two sleeping bags together to create one larger sleeping space. The battery-powered lanterns cast warm, golden light over everything, creating an atmosphere that's both cozy and intimate.

"Come here," you say, settling into the makeshift bed.

She crawls over to you, and in the confined space of the fort, everything feels closer, more intense. When you kiss her this time, it's with the knowledge that your time together is limited, which makes every touch more precious.

"I want you," she whispers against your lips.

"You have me," you whisper back.

What follows is slow and thorough and incredibly intimate. In the warm cocoon of the fort, with the cold wind whistling outside, you take your time worshipping each other's bodies. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered endearment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni straddles your hips and slowly sinks down onto you, the look in her eyes is so intense it takes your breath away.

"God," she gasps, her head falling back as she adjusts to the feeling of your cock inside her.

"Look at me," you say softly, reaching up to cup her face.

She meets your eyes, and the connection is electric. There's something vulnerable and open in her expression that makes your chest tight with emotion.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

"So are you," she whispers, beginning to move slowly.

The rhythm you find together is unhurried and perfect. In the golden light of the lanterns, with the storm sounds providing a soundtrack, everything feels dreamlike and magical.

"I don't want this to end," she gasps as you hit a particularly good angle.

"Then don't let it," you say, sitting up to wrap your arms around her.

The new position brings you even closer together, and she makes a sound of pleasure that goes straight to your soul.

"Like this," she breathes, moving against you in a way that makes you see stars. "I want to feel all of you."

You lose track of time after that, lost in the rhythm of her body and the sounds she makes and the way she looks in the flickering light. When she finally falls apart around you, crying out your name, it triggers your own release with an intensity that leaves you shaking.

Afterward, you hold each other close in the warmth of the sleeping bags, listening to the wind outside.

"That was..." Hanni starts, then trails off.

"Yeah," you agree, understanding perfectly.

"Is it weird that I'm already sad about leaving?" she asks quietly.

"Is it weird that I'm already planning ways to convince you to stay?" you counter.

She lifts her head to look at you. "What kind of ways?"

"I don't know. Bribery, maybe. Really good coffee and homemade breakfast every morning."

"That's a compelling offer."

"I could throw in backrubs and excellent fort-building skills."

"You do build an excellent fort," she concedes.

"Plus, think of all the storms we could survive together."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her thinking.

"It's tempting," she says finally. "But you know I can't."

"I know," you say, even though part of you was hoping she might say yes. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to ask."

"What if..." She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. "What if distance doesn't have to mean the end?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if we see what happens? Stay in touch, see where you are when I'm done traveling."

Your heart jumps at the possibility. "You'd want that?"

"I don't know what I want long-term," she says honestly. "But I know I don't want to just forget about you when I leave tomorrow."

"I don't want to forget about you either."

"So maybe we don't have to figure it all out right now. Maybe we just... see what happens."

"No pressure, no expectations," you say, echoing the conversation from the night before.

"Just... possibility."

"I like possibility."

"Good," she says, settling back against your chest. "Because I think you might be worth waiting for."

The words hit you harder than they should, given that you've known her for less than two days. But lying there in your blanket fort, holding this incredible girl who's managed to turn your entire world upside down in the span of a weekend, waiting doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.

Outside, the wind is still howling, but inside your makeshift sanctuary, everything feels perfect. You're warm and safe and holding someone who makes you want to be braver than you've ever been.

"Hanni?" you say softly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making me feel alive."

She tilts her head up to kiss your jaw. "Thank you for making me feel like myself."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other in a pile of blankets and sleeping bags, with the storm providing a lullaby and the promise of one more day together when you wake up.

Day Three: Departure

Sunday morning arrives with cruel sunshine.

You wake to Hanni tracing patterns on your chest, her finger following the lines of your muscles in the golden light streaming through the apartment windows. Sometime during the night, the power came back on - you can hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator and see the digital clock on the microwave blinking 12:00 in the kitchen.

"The storm's over," she says softly, not looking up from her artwork on your skin.

"Yeah," you agree, though you're not sure if she's talking about the weather or the weekend.

"I checked my phone. My flight's still on schedule for tonight."

"What time?"

"Eight-thirty. I should probably leave here around five to get to the airport and check in."

You do the math automatically. It's 9:15 now. Less than eight hours left.

"We should make them count," you say, tightening your arms around her.

"What do you want to do?"

The question hangs in the air between you. What do you do on the last day with someone who's about to walk out of your life? How do you fit a lifetime of experiences into eight hours?

"Everything," you say finally. "I want to do everything with you."

She smiles and looks up at you. "Everything's a pretty big list."

"Then we better get started."

What follows is the kind of day you'll remember for the rest of your life. Not because anything particularly extraordinary happens, but because of the weight of knowing it's all temporary. Every moment feels heightened, more vivid, like you're seeing everything in higher definition.

You start with breakfast in bed; real breakfast this time, with the coffee maker working and eggs that don't require camping equipment. Hanni steals bites of your toast and gets jam on her chin, and when you lean over to kiss it off, she tastes like strawberries.

"So what's the plan?" she asks, curled up next to you with her coffee.

"First, shower," you say. "A real shower, with hot water and actual water pressure."

"Together?" she asks with a grin that makes your pulse quicken.

"Definitely together."

The shower turns into an extended exploration of what it feels like to worship someone's body under hot water. You take turns washing each other with deliberate care, learning the geography of skin and muscle and the places that make each other gasp. When Hanni drops to her knees and takes you in her mouth under the spray of water, you have to brace yourself against the tile wall to keep from collapsing.

"Fuck, Hanni," you groan, your hands tangling in her wet hair.

She hums around you, the vibration making your knees weak. When you finally pull her up to kiss her, she's laughing and breathless and more beautiful than should be legal.

"My turn," you murmur against her lips, and proceed to return the favor until she's crying out your name and trembling against you.

By the time you finally make it out of the shower, it's almost noon and you're both wrinkled from the water and grinning like idiots.

"Best shower of my life," Hanni announces, wrapping herself in one of your towels.

"Just wait until you see what I can do with actual food and a working kitchen," you tell her.

"I've tried every kind of food in America. Do you think you can surprise me?"

"Watch me."

You spend the next hour cooking together - and you use the term "together" loosely, since Hanni's contribution mostly involves sitting on the counter distracting you with her legs and making unhelpful comments about your technique.

"You're supposed to flip it when the edges start to set," she says, watching you make pancakes.

"I know how to make pancakes," you say, though you're more focused on the way her towel is riding up her thighs than on the cooking.

"Are you sure? Because that one looks a little..."

"A little what?"

"Burned," she says with a laugh.

You look down at the pan and realize she's right. "That's your fault for being distracting."

"I'm just sitting here."

"You're sitting there being gorgeous and naked under that towel. It's very distracting."

"Poor baby," she says with mock sympathy. "Can't cook when there's a pretty girl in the kitchen."

"Not just any pretty girl," you correct, moving to stand between her legs. "You specifically. You're like kryptonite for my domestic skills."

"Kryptonite?" She wraps her arms around your neck. "I'm your weakness?"

"My greatest weakness," you confirm, leaning in to kiss her.

The pancakes burn.

You order takeout instead, laughing about your complete failure at domestic goddess status. While you wait for the food to arrive, Hanni gets dressed in clothes from her suitcase; jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her skin glow.

"I need to do laundry when I get to Germany," she says, examining the contents of her suitcase. "I've been living out of this thing for months."

"What's Germany like?" you ask, settling on the bed to watch her pack and repack her things.

"I don't know yet. I fly into Munich, then I'm taking trains around to different cities. I want to see as much as possible before I settle somewhere to really focus on the language."

"How long will you be there?"

"Three months, maybe four. Depends on how quickly I pick up the German and whether I like it enough to stay longer."

"And then Portugal and Brazil?"

"That's the plan. Though plans have a way of changing when you're traveling." She looks at you. "I'm learning to be okay with not knowing what comes next."

"Must be liberating."

"It is. Terrifying, but liberating." She sits on the edge of the bed. "What about you? Any plans to escape your comfortable life?"

"Maybe," you say, surprising yourself. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. About the difference between responsibilities and expectations."

"And?"

"And maybe you're right. Maybe I've been living someone else's idea of what my life should look like."

"What would your idea look like?"

It's a good question, and one you've been afraid to ask yourself. "I don't know," you admit. "But I think I'd like to find out."

"That's the first step," she says softly. "Admitting you don't know."

The food arrives, interrupting the conversation, but her words stick with you. As you eat lunch together on your couch (Thai food this time, eaten straight from the containers) you find yourself looking at your apartment with different eyes. When did you stop thinking of this place as temporary and start thinking of it as permanent? When did you stop asking yourself what you wanted and start just accepting what you had?

"Penny for your thoughts," Hanni says, nudging you with her foot.

"Just thinking about what you said. About not knowing what comes next."

"Having second thoughts about your perfectly adequate life?"

"Maybe." You look at her. "Is that crazy?"

"The only crazy thing would be staying somewhere that doesn't make you happy just because it's safe."

"But what if I leave and it turns out this was as good as it gets? What if I'm throwing away something good for something that might not even exist?"

"What if you stay and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?"

She has a point. You've been so focused on not making the wrong choice that you've avoided making any choice at all.

"Besides," she continues, "who says you have to figure it all out at once? You could start small. Take a vacation somewhere you've always wanted to go. Apply for jobs in other cities. See what happens."

"Is that how you started? Small steps?"

"God, no," she laughs. "I went full nuclear option. Quit everything, bought a plane ticket, and hoped for the best."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Well, I'm sitting in an apartment eating Thai food with a guy I met two days ago who makes me feel like I can conquer the world," she says. "So I'd say it's working out pretty well."

"Even though you're leaving tonight?"

"Especially because I'm leaving tonight." She sets down her food and moves closer to you. "Don't you see? If I had stayed home, played it safe, followed the plan, I never would have met you. I never would have had this weekend."

"But you're still leaving."

"But I'm not forgetting." She cups your face in her hands. "Some experiences aren't meant to last forever. That doesn't make them less valuable."

"How do you know the difference? Between something that's meant to be temporary and something that's worth fighting for?"

"You don't," she says simply. "That's what makes it an adventure."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "You're very wise for someone who doesn't have a five-year plan."

"I'm very stupid for someone who's falling for a guy she can't keep," she counters.

"Are you? Falling?"

She's quiet for so long you think she's not going to answer.

"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."

"Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know it's stupid and impractical and completely against the rules we set up. But I can't help it."

"The rules were stupid anyway," you say, pulling her closer. "Who makes rules about not having feelings?"

"Smart people who don't want to get hurt."

"Are we smart people?"

"Definitely not," she says with a laugh that sounds slightly watery.

"Good. Smart people are boring."

"Are you?" she asks, looking at you with those dark eyes that see too much. "Falling?"

You think about lying, about protecting yourself and her from the complications that come with admitting feelings. But looking at her face, open and vulnerable and beautiful, you can't bring yourself to do it.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm definitely falling."

She closes her eyes like the admission hurts. "This is a disaster."

"The best kind of disaster."

"We're going to end up heartbroken."

"Maybe. Or maybe we'll end up with something amazing."

"How can we have something amazing when I'm leaving?"

"I don't know," you admit. "But I know that what we have right now is amazing, and I don't want to waste it worrying about later."

She opens her eyes and looks at you. "You're right. We have..." She checks her phone. "Four hours. What do you want to do with four hours?"

"Make love to you," you say immediately, then feel yourself blush at the words. "I mean... fuck. I meant have sex. Make love sounds so..."

"Perfect," she interrupts softly. "It sounds perfect."

And it is perfect. You carry her to the bedroom and spend the next two hours learning each other's bodies with a tenderness that goes far beyond anything you've shared before. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss is meaningful, every moment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni arches beneath you, gasping your name as you move inside her, the look in her eyes is so full of emotion it takes your breath away.

"I love the way you feel," she whispers, her legs wrapped around your waist. "I love how we fit together."

"I love everything about you," you say, and immediately freeze. It's too much, too soon, too honest.

But instead of pulling away, she smiles. "Say it again."

"I love everything about you," you repeat, this time deliberately. "Your smile, your laugh, the way you think about the world. I love how brave you are and how honest you are and how you make me want to be braver too."

"I love you too," she says simply, and the words hang in the air between you like a gift.

You stop moving, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. "Hanni..."

"I know it's crazy," she says, her hands framing your face. "I know we just met and I'm leaving and this is supposed to be casual. But I love you. I love you and I needed to say it."

"I love you too," you say, and saying it feels like jumping off a cliff. "God, I love you so much it scares me."

What happens next transcends anything you've experienced before. You move together with a desperation that comes from knowing this is precious and temporary. When you both finally fall apart, it's with tears in your eyes and each other's names on your lips.

Afterward, you hold each other in the afternoon sunlight streaming through your bedroom windows, both of you quiet and overwhelmed.

"So," Hanni says eventually, her voice slightly hoarse. "We're in love."

"Apparently."

"That complicates things."

"Just a little."

She's quiet for a moment, then starts laughing. "This is insane. I'm in love with someone I met three days ago."

"Two days," you correct. "It's only been two days."

"That makes it worse, not better."

"Or it makes it magic."

She lifts her head to look at you. "You really think so?"

"I think that falling in love isn't supposed to be logical or convenient or follow a timeline. I think it just happens when it happens."

"And it happened to us."

"It happened to us."

"In the middle of a storm."

"The best things happen during storms."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what now?"

"Now we figure out what to do with it."

"I still have to leave."

"I know."

"And you still have your life here."

"I know."

"And long-distance relationships are hard and usually don't work."

"I know."

"But?"

"But I love you," you say simply. "And you love me. And maybe that's enough to figure out the rest."

"You'd really want to try? Even knowing how complicated it'll be?"

"Hanni, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. If there's even a chance we could make this work, I want to take it."

"What if I'm traveling for a year? What if I decide to stay in Europe? What if—"

"What if you stop asking what-if questions and we just see what happens?" you interrupt gently.

She's quiet for a long moment. "You'd really wait for me? Even not knowing when or if I'll come back?"

"I'd really wait for you."

"Why?"

"Because some people are worth waiting for," you say, echoing her words from the night before. "And you're definitely one of them."

She turns to kiss you, and there's something different in this kiss - hope, maybe, or possibility.

"Okay," she says against your lips.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, let's try. Let's see what happens."

"Really?"

"Really. I can't promise anything, and I don't know how it'll work, but... I love you. I want to see where this goes."

The relief that floods through you is almost overwhelming. "I love you too. We'll figure it out."

"Together?"

"Together."

You spend the remaining time before she has to leave for the airport doing normal, domestic things that feel anything but normal. You help her pack, though mostly you just sit on the bed and watch her fold clothes while trying to memorize every detail about her. You make coffee and share a mug, taking turns sipping from it like you're sharing something sacred.

At 4:30, you call a car to take her to the airport.

"I should go wait downstairs," she says, shouldering her backpack.

"I'll come with you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

The ride to the airport is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Hanni's hand is in yours, and you find yourself memorizing the feel of it: the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit between yours, the small callus on her index finger from writing.

At the departure terminal, you help her get her bags from the trunk and then stand there facing each other, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

"This is it," she says finally.

"This is it."

"I'll text you when I land in Munich."

"I'll be waiting."

"And we'll video chat when the time zones work out."

"Every day if you want."

"I want." She steps closer, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you too."

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For what?"

"For the best three days of my life. For making me feel like myself. For being brave enough to fall in love with me."

"Thank you for falling in love with me back."

She rises up on her toes to kiss you, and it's soft and sweet and tinged with the sadness of goodbye.

"I love you," she whispers against your lips.

"I love you too," you whisper back. "Now go have adventures. I'll be here when you're ready."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You watch her walk into the terminal, turning back once to wave before she disappears into the crowd. You stand there for a long time after she's gone, watching planes take off through the windows and thinking about how much your life has changed in three days On the drive home, your apartment feels different, too quiet, too empty, like it's missing something essential. You walk through the rooms, touching things she touched, remembering the way she looked curled up on your couch or standing in your kitchen making coffee.

The blanket fort is still set up in your living room, and you find yourself crawling inside it, surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of everything you shared there.

Your phone buzzes with a text: "Boarding now. Thank you for everything. I love you."

You text back: "Fly safe. I love you too. This isn't goodbye, it's see you later."

"See you later," she responds, followed by a heart emoji.

You lie there in the fort, thinking about storms and timing and the way some people can walk into your life and change everything in the space of a weekend. Outside, the city is settling into Sunday evening normalcy, but inside your apartment, everything feels transformed.

Your phone rings. It's Jake, your former roommate.

"Hey man," he says when you answer. "How'd you survive the storm? Power's been out in half the city."

"It was... interesting," you say, which might be the understatement of the year.

"Just interesting? Dude, that was like a once-in-a-decade storm. Didn't you have Danielle's friend staying with you?"

"Yeah. Hanni."

"How was that? Awkward having a stranger crash during the apocalypse?"

You think about how to answer that. How do you explain that a stranger became the most important person in your world in the span of three days? How do you describe falling in love during a storm?

"Actually," you say, "it was perfect."

"Perfect? Really?"

"Really."

"Huh. Well, good for you, man. I was worried you'd be miserable stuck inside with some random girl."

"Definitely not miserable," you say, and you can't help but smile despite the ache in your chest.

After you hang up, you stay in the fort for a while longer, thinking about everything that's happened and everything that might happen next. Tomorrow you'll go back to work, back to your regular life, but something fundamental has shifted. Hanni was right: you can't go back to just going through the motions when you know what it feels like to be truly alive.

Your phone buzzes again. A photo this time - Hanni at her gate, giving a thumbs up with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Gate 47. Thinking of our fort," she's written.

You take a picture of yourself inside the blanket fort and send it back. "Fort misses you already."

"Save it for when I get back?"

"It'll be here waiting."

"Good. I love you."

"I love you too. Safe travels, beautiful."

You stay in the fort until long after her plane has taken off, scrolling through the few photos you managed to take over the weekend and reading through your text conversation. Eventually, you clean up the living room, folding blankets and putting furniture back where it belongs. But you keep one of the sleeping bags on the couch, and you don't put away all the candles.

Some things are worth preserving.

That night, you lie in your bed (which feels too big and too empty now) and think about the future. For the first time in years, you don't know exactly what comes next, and instead of that feeling terrifying, it feels like possibility.

You think about Hanni somewhere over the Atlantic, probably asleep in her cramped airplane seat, flying toward her next adventure. You think about the conversations you'll have and the texts you'll exchange and the video calls that will have to substitute for being together.

It won't be easy. Long-distance relationships require work and patience and faith that what you have is worth the difficulty. But lying there in the dark, remembering the way she looked at you when she said she loved you, you know it will be worth it.

Your phone buzzes one last time. "Somewhere over the ocean. Can't sleep. Thinking about our storm."

"Think we'll have another one?" you text back, not sure if she's still awake to receive it.

The response comes immediately: "I'm counting on it."

You fall asleep smiling, and you dream of storms and girls who taste like adventure and the way some weekends can change your entire life.

Three days. It took three days for a stranger to become the most important person in your world. Three days to fall in love and decide to fight for something that should be impossible.

But as you've learned, the best things usually happen during storms.