I was sitting in Avdotya’s bedroom reading a book and waiting for her.

Suddenly, she pushed open the door and walked in; the pink nightgown complemented her pink hair well.

“Are you going to sleep? Take off your glasses, will you?”

As a famous writer, she found it hard to look at small fonts for a long time and avoid problems with her eyes.

Yet, her vision wasn’t poor enough to wear a pair of glasses daily; she only needed to wear a pair of glasses while reading and writing.

This still allowed her to make a living from writing daily.

She let out a soft huff, fell into bed, and moved towards me.

I turned off the lamp and lay on the bed, hugging her.

So, how did I become this intimate with a cold and famous writer?

Probably because of that story.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, my colleagues were all banging away at code with their heads in the sand in front of a black screen.

However, a stream of white showed on my face.

Why? Because I was writing stories.

What did I write, you ask?

I don’t know; the scope is too wide to explain in a few words.

I usually write what I liked at that time.

Even so, there is a very common yet crucial element that appears in my stories.

Love.

My work celebrates pure, unadulterated love, probably because that was something I longed for.

As I was lost in my imagination, a man stood behind me for God knows how long.

“Cal, come to my office.”

My fantasies were put to an end curtly.

And I shouldn’t have listened to music while writing.

As soon as I entered the office, my supervisor spoke to me with much care, as if I were his son.

As he spoke, the tentacles on his arm swung.

Ah, yes, I forgot to mention, in today’s society, there is already gene-splicing engineering.

By transplanting some animal genes into our bodies, we would take on the characteristics of those animals.

My supervisor also transplanted a jellyfish gene, which was said to prolong life and prevent death due to ageing.

Bloody hell, why wouldn’t he transplant the trait of jellyfish needing water to live along with it?

Then he would be shown in an aquarium as an exotic marine creature.

What animal’s gene did I transplant, you ask?

I didn’t.

I’m afraid that one day that thing will mutate.

“I understand that you have already finished your job, and I can’t find things for you to do, but can you be less wild about it?”

He was still talking to me, but nothing went into my ears; my mind had already travelled back into my story, paving the way forward for my protagonist.

He always chats with me, hoping that I will learn my lesson.

But I never learn from my mistakes.

And he didn’t have the guts to fire me.

The quality of the projects I worked on was consistently top-tier, always satisfying the customer.

There was not much of a downside to me, except for handing things in at the last minute.

So my supervisor often allows me to do this.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, finally, it was 7 p.m., and I could finally leave.

I returned home with exhaustion, only to hear a thud from the couch in the living room, then a faint glow in the dimly lit room.

The opening of a video was always heard in the room, and then it was hurriedly switched to another.

At this time, my stomach rumbled quite unseasonably.

“Ah… I’m starving…”
Even though I knew how to cook, at least the food I made wouldn’t be as revolting as pineapple on pizza, but the work today had already used up all my energy.

I just wanted to lie on the sofa like a dead fish.

I ordered takeaway and went back to my study.

I opened the story I was writing at my workplace, had my playlist on repeat, and started to weave a fascinating story with words.

Time flew, and it was already 10 p.m.

If I don’t sleep now, then I will be late for work tomorrow, and being at work at nine in the morning may be the only humane thing in this company.

I uploaded that story, and I quickly brushed my teeth and slept.

At this time, a small red dot appeared on my social media app icon.

Someone sent a direct message to me.

Early in the morning, the crisp chirping of the birds was heard from a tree.

It was relaxing, as if I were in a pleasant orchestra.

Wait, hold up.

Birds chirping?

I popped up from bed with a jolt, only to find out I was late, again.

Although I slept at 10, I was still late for work.

But I was prescient, so I bought some bagged bread, just to deal with these situations.

These kinds of things happened every day.

I quickly changed into new clothes, grabbed a few bags of bread in my bag, and went outdoors.

I stopped a taxi on the way, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I told him where my workplace was.

I wanted to pull out my terminal to kill time, but as my hands slipped into my pocket, I realised something.

I thought my remote control was my terminal.

Meanwhile, in a vintage-inspired apartment, an elegant-looking, cold, pink-haired woman was drinking coffee she brewed.

She stared at her terminal, which showed the chat history between me and her, as well as the direct message she sent.

“Decent work, very creative writing.”
“Still no reply?”
She mumbled; she seemed to be anticipating my reply.

She sighed, put down her terminal, and picked up her fountain pen, starting to write something on paper.

Yes, just like me, she is also a writer; the biggest difference is, this is her full-time job.

Also, a famous one.

Apart from commercial writing, such as writing jingles, she seems to be more of a literature person, writing poems, plays, and novels.

Unlike the straightforward, simple, and direct advertorials, her literature often has a glimpse of negativity.

The plot’s metaphors often reveal famine, cold, intrigue, and murder.

However, the metaphors are often too subtle, which makes most people puzzled as they read her stories.

That is the reason why the comment section underneath her stories is very polarised, with people often arguing.

Those who criticise her are often dominant, probably because most people don’t want to, or don’t want to waste time delving into her writing and her metaphors.

Despite the obscurity of her stories, she still has loyal readers; many readers, even some quite famous writers, are arguing on the forum, arguing about whose interpretation is right.

I couldn’t understand the metaphors written by her, yet, I don’t know why, I could always find hints hidden between words and sentences, understanding the meaning lying underneath them.

Still, I have never posted my interpretation on the forum, even though my speculations seemed reasonable.

After all, compared to those writers or those professional critics, what am I?

I’m just a normal programmer; writing is only my hobby.

A long time later, I finally went back home; at least our supervisor didn’t tell us to stay behind for a meeting.

I nearly jumped as I picked up my terminal and read that message.

I would hit my head on the roof if I jumped.

“Pozëmka? She left a comment on my story!”

I sent her a quick, apologetic reply.

“I’m so sorry (シ_ _)シ, I went out in a hurry today, and I took my remote control as if it were my terminal, so I can only reply to you when I get back home.”
“Still, thanks for the like. Not many people compliment my stories.”
As I put down my terminal, wanting to change my clothes, my terminal rang.

“Why?”
“I don’t know why either, but my friends read some of my stories before, and they said they can’t understand what I’m writing.”
“Haven’t you shown your parents what you write?”

“My parents don’t like to see me write; they want to break my keyboard in half every time they see me write.”

“This is also why I use a laptop to write (#^.^#)”

As Pozëmka saw my messages, the glint in her eye faded.

“It’s all right. There are a lot of people who love your stories now.”

“Thank you.”

After I ate dinner, I sat back in front of my computer and continued to write stories.

After being praised by Pozëmka, I wasn’t satisfied with only writing stories for entertainment purposes.

I wanted to write some stories with depth, just like her.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, and lines of words started to appear on the blank document.

I wanted to mimic Pozëmka’s writing, following in her footsteps.

However, her stories have their own style; by just writing a fairly simple thing, you can feel the solemnity, the faint sense of sadness.

It was like I was in the tundra of Ursus; all I could see was white, and all I could hear was the wind whistling through my ears.

Unable to write, I had no other option but to turn off my computer and lean back in my chair.

I often feel a surge of frustration at this point, and the more frustrated I am, the worse the story is.

Never mind, I will write tomorrow.

My gaze fell upon Pozëmka’s avatar icon and the message seen an hour ago. I sighed.

“Why can’t my writing be as good as hers?”

Her rhetoric is lush and natural and doesn’t feel like it’s purposefully used to make a normal story better.

You may pick any sentence, and you will find that she vividly portrays every important detail.

I turned off my computer, and after brushing my teeth, I lay on the bed, trying to fall asleep.

Yet I tossed and turned, my mind kept bubbling with new ideas, only to be replaced by others.

As I was in high school, I often posted my stories on the school’s platform, and my teachers often complimented my fine and creative writing.

I never ran out of ideas; all I needed was sound logic to tell a story perfectly.

At last, I opened my eyes, and I stared at the fan spinning above my head.

Strange things started to surface in my mind.

For example, if the fan fell, would it crush me to death or slice my head into sashimi?

I thought it was the former.

Sometimes it was a bad thing to have too many things on my mind.

I had no other choice but to pick up my terminal and watch short videos.

Then, I stumbled across a video about bashing modern love.

It was said that quick love was the last problem we should worry about nowadays. Treating love as a money grab and playing with others’ true feelings was way worse than quick love.

A sentence in the video caught my attention.

“In this era, sex is no longer shameful, and love is a game for the brave.”

Why couldn’t I write a story based on these things?

Having this thought in mind, I sat back in front of my computer again.

The white glow from the computer emanated onto my hardworking face as my fingers danced across the keyboard, and line after line of the story started to appear on the blank document.

I never thought that I could write this fluently, with almost no pausing between lines.

I even thought about the plot of the story as I wrote.

Time passed, and the sound of the clock ticking faded.

At last, I couldn’t withstand the tiredness and collapsed on the computer desk.

In the early morning, no birds were chirping, but a more unpleasant noise.

“Ding Ding Ding!”

It was my alarm clock, and the more annoying part was that I was late again.

I stretched and accidentally moved my mouse, and the computer lit up.

I glanced at the time on my terminal; even if I stopped a taxi the moment I went downstairs, there was no way I could make it to my workplace in time.

Probably because of guilt or uneasiness, my parents send me some money every month.

Even though I could fend for myself, paying the rent of my little cosy flat, I didn’t have to worry about starving.

I could even write instead of finding another part-time job.

I sighed, went to brush my teeth, tidied up a bit, and went to the cafe downstairs to grab a bite.

At 10 o’clock, I walked into my workplace nonchalantly and sat back in my chair.

I lay back in my chair and casually switched on the power button of my computer, then scrolled through my terminal.

My supervisor saw me, walked towards me slowly, and scolded me again.

“Why are you so late today? Why bother when you can just phone in and tell me you’re skipping work?”
“All right then, see you!”

He didn’t have the guts to fire me anyway.

“Come back here!”

It was rare for my boss to raise his voice at me.

“Come to my office.”
I didn’t know why, but my supervisor was more serious than before.

As I stepped into his office, he turned his monitor towards me.

After a few glances, I knew that a company had asked us to design an app for them.

“So? I know nothing about app design. I nearly failed visual art when I was in high school.”

“Don’t think I never worked as a programmer before I became your supervisor.”
“Even though app design requires some arts and crafts, it still relies on you programmers to work, right?”
“Yes…”
“I have decided your group will be working on this project.”

“Who is in my group again?”

I looked at my boss, and he looked back at me. We both fell into silence.

“Do you have the name list?”
Because I was the group leader, it was a must for me to meet the customer; besides, I brought a groupmate, just to jot down the app’s requirements.

Our customer had told us to meet in a quiet, high-class restaurant’s private room. Let’s just hope that no drinking is needed.

I knocked and walked inside with my groupmate.

There was a pink-haired girl in the room. She turned her head towards us and placed down her coffee cup.

She was wearing a white dress, and she crossed her legs, allowing us to catch a glimpse of her calves.

Realising her gesture wasn’t very appropriate, she put down her leg and looked at us with a hint of apology.

Her long, slender, manicured fingers reached for a strand of hair beside her cheeks, ran through the end, and pinned it behind her ear.

She smiled slightly, and the fox ears on her head twitched. Even though I knew that she smiled out of politeness, I couldn’t say that I wasn’t profoundly attracted to that smile.

Every move of hers was deliberate, yet natural, just like a perfect doll, showing set movements.

Her voice was light, just like feathers brushing across my cheeks.

“Sorry to be rude.”
“I assume that you’re here to talk to me about the app development, right?”
“You are from Brand’s brand broadcasting, if I didn’t get it wrong.”

“Yes, please sit.”

Even though she was acting so kind and elegant, I still felt a trace of indifference and nonchalance from her.

Just like a high and mighty noble who scoffs at us.

“Allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Pozëmka. I am a jingle writer from Brand’s brand Broadcasting.”

“Hi, I am Caleb Mendez. You may call me Cal.”

“And you are?”
Pozëmka stirred her cup of coffee gently, having a touch of a smile in her eyes as she looked at the girl in front of her.

“What? M-Me? I am Sapphire Combs; you may call me Sapphire.”
“Sorry, did I scare you? I can assure you I am a very nice person; no need to panic or be too formal. Have something to eat first. I ordered some dessert, try it.”

“We’re good.”

I tried to push the plate of macarons back to Pozëmka, yet her finger rested against the rim of the plate.

I looked at her, and there was still a smile on her face, yet I felt that she didn’t allow us to resist her offer.

So, we ate and chatted, time flew, and after everything was settled, it was already afternoon.

“Shall we go out and have lunch?”

“No thanks, I brought some leftovers from last night.”
With that, my groupmate left while clutching some folders.

I sighed. I bought some sandwiches to deal with my lunch and went back to my workplace to work on the project.

Not far away, Pozëmka stared at me and glanced at my avatar.

And she felt that the person who made the avatar and I were extremely similar.

She felt that I had a sense of modesty that was uniquely literary.

“Probably just a habit from dealing with his boss all the time.”

At half past six, I tidied up my things, turned off the computer, and decided to go back home.

A group of colleagues I didn’t know very well approached me; a sweet-looking girl saw me and asked me in a saccharine voice.

“Cal, do you want to pay a visit to the nightclub with us?”
Because I was polite, I wanted to say yes, but the split second before I was about to nod my head, I recalled my still-unfinished story. Also, I didn’t know them very well, and I rejected her offer.

Probably just wanted one more person to split the bills.

As I got home and cooked something for myself to eat, I sat in front of my computer again, ready to immerse myself in the story.

Just like this, my life continued ordinarily, except for the little chit-chat I had; Pozëmka never chatted with me again.

Finally, on a rainy Friday night, I finished my story.

After I checked that there were no mistakes, I posted my story online.

Less than half an hour later, a notification sound was heard from my computer.

It was from Pozëmka.

“Your writing style changed a lot. I commented under your story; I will not belabour the comment here.”

It was a very normal, flat sentence.

Yet it was a surprise for me.

“Thank you, and for the writing style, I tried to mimic your writing style in some parts. Hope you won’t mind.”
“I can see that you handled those parts very well, somehow making it more appealing, not like a shirt full of patches.”

“Impressive, though I must say, you will want to extend your vocabulary. I’ve seen some words used as adjectives and verbs multiple times.”

“And you really love foreign literature, don’t you? I’ve seen some metaphors that read with a translated accent.”

I felt a bit embarrassed as I saw this message.

“Haha, sorry, but yes, most of my literary foundation comes from foreign literature. I especially love those books written crudely, yet with profound intent.”

“Why would you love those books?”
“I don’t know why, but I think they’re appealing to me, and I think that they are trying to prove that a good piece of work doesn’t require clever sentences. As long as it leaves a track in the reader’s mind, that is a good book.”

“Of course, those rhetorics are no less than a plus.”

Pozëmka stared at the screen; she was losing her sense of her surroundings, and her attention was seeping into the terminal’s screen.

“Maybe we should meet one day and have a little chat.”

“You have an extraordinary perception of literature; maybe this can inspire me in certain aspects.”

“Haha, that’s a good joke. I should be the one saying that.”
“But I’m busy these days. I might be free next month.”

“We’ll meet next month then.”
I turned off my terminal and went to read the comment Pozëmka left under my story.

“A very engaging piece of writing, with interesting metaphors, smooth writing, and good handling of articulation, yet some parts are redundant, some dialogues are a bit stiff and lacklustre, and some of the character details are skimpily portrayed and still need more improvement.”

Life kept going on, and we finished the app. The broadcasting company was satisfied.

On a very normal weekend, I didn’t go downstairs for breakfast, nor did I order takeaway.

I tidied myself up a bit and prepared breakfast slowly.

I completely ignored my capsule coffee maker today and scooped some coffee beans out of a sealed jar, put them in a wooden grinder, and started grinding them into powder.

The capsule coffee maker was a gift I won at the end-of-the-year party.

I dumped the coffee powder on a filter paper and then poured hot water on it.

The deep brown coffee dripped into the coffee cup, and then, with a ding, the waffles were ready.

I poured syrup and spread butter on the waffles, then I went to get some blueberries and strawberries and placed them on the plate.

I took a photo and posted it on social media.

The morning light slipped into the room through the window, bathing the room in a golden hue.

The flower of the apple tree bloomed, and a pair of very loving birds were eating fruit they found on the branch.

Even so, I felt like something was missing.

I switched on the TV, and it was showing today’s news.

“After the government decision, the city will…”

Just as I wanted to sit down and have breakfast, the TV was annoying me.

I wanted the TV to act as background noise, but it was affecting my mood.

I turned off the TV and picked up my terminal, about to play some soothing music.

Yet I couldn’t find suitable music to play.

I leaned back and slumped into my chair.

It was so quiet at home, it made me feel so uncomfortable.

But I have always lived alone, so why would I feel uncomfortable?

None of my surroundings changed; the dust appeared under sunlight, and the clothes swung in the light breeze.

Quiet, it was still quiet.

It was too quiet.

Was it lacking a little life?

No, there were a lot of critters on my windowsill—sparrows, squirrels, and butterflies; these were all commonplace.

Was it lacking a little noise?

No, I wasn’t in the habit of playing music, and my neighbour wasn’t a freak who played music at 3 in the morning.

I knew it.

It was lacking people.

My coffee machine had two cups, yet I only used one.

My sofa had multiple seats, yet there was only an indentation where I sat.

The kitchen could always hold two people, yet there was only one figure coming in and out.

I vaguely recall that my friends advised me to find a girlfriend early and start a family early.

My parents told me the same thing; they said it was boring for me to be alone.

My friends had tried many ways to help me find a partner.

My answer was.

“Probably I will find someone I love at 29 years old.”
They replied to me like this.

“Then there is no difference between what you’re doing and wasting time!”

I said nothing and thought to myself.

“Settling for a lie is also a waste of time.”

What I needed was a girl who fit me, a girl who suited me after we met for some time, not some strangers in a bar, on the streets.

Even though most of my friends settled down with a girl by asking for their number on the streets or in the pub, some were even planning a wedding.

There’s no wrong way to do this; what matters is whether it is suitable for you.

I would rather take it slow, while my friends wanted it fast.

I sighed and speared a piece of waffle with my fork and put it in my mouth.

Thinking of that, I started to think about a girl who was a match for me.

A girl with pink hair and pink fox ears, elegant, aesthetic, and literary.

I froze for a split second. Wasn’t that,

Pozëmka?

Then, my terminal rang, and someone sent me a message.

Just then, I thought my boss was trying to make me work on a weekend. I found out it was the one that I longed for, Pozëmka.

“Do you want to sit in a café, have a little chat with me? Today is a weekend, and I’m also very free.”

As I saw this message, the corners of my lips lifted imperceptibly.

After a while, I realised that I had to reply to her message.

“I have nothing to do today either. When should I come to meet you?”
“Now. I am at Little Corner’s café. There’s no need to worry about lunch; many people online said the meal here was a delicacy and affordable.”
“All right, wait for me. I’m coming ASAP.”
On the other side, Pozëmka saw my reply, and she smirked.

She crossed one leg over the other, and the hem of her skirt rode up; even so, her legs were hardly visible.

I barely adorned myself before I went out; normally, I usually just grabbed the clothes on top of the pile.

My clothes match all the other clothes anyway, so it wouldn’t look bad if I dressed in any of those.

Yet, I dug out my linen shirt that I bought a long time ago and wore a pair of light-coloured trousers.

I primped myself in front of a mirror for quite some time, ensuring that I looked great and casual.

Before I went, I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and wore a glamorous necklace.

A little trick that belongs to me.

As I walked to the cafe, I immediately noticed Pozëmka; her look stood out from the others, and it’s hard not to notice her.

“Hi, sorry for the wait.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve met, right?”

Pozëmka picked up her coffee and took a sip.

She looked up towards me and spotted my necklace.

I could feel her gaze lingering on my body for a while.

“No, we had met each other in a private room of a restaurant, but we met only as partners.”

“Why didn’t you stay behind and have a little chat with me?”
Her gaze only lingered on my body for a short while, then moved away.

She looked at the pedestrians across the street and the passing vehicles, her voice plain and calm.

“What should I talk to you about at that time? It would be very embarrassing to say anything.”

I joked, yet she remained silent, still looking at the passing people and vehicles.

For a moment, it seemed that everything remained silent.

I wanted to apologise for my offence, yet I didn’t know what had offended her.

Then, she turned her head towards me, pulled out a paper bag from under the table, and pushed it towards me.

“I have prepared a birthday gift, just a small token of my appreciation.”

I was a bit surprised, not because she jumped from one topic to another that quickly, but because of,

“But, it’s not my birthday today.”

I smiled and corrected her, yet she was nonchalant about it.

“I know, but I am occupied on your birthday, so I decided to give you the present early.”
“Happy early birthday, Mr. Mendez.”
“Just call me Cal.”
I took the gift and asked.

“Do you mind if I open it now?”

“No, I don’t. It’s already yours, after all.”
She slowly smirked, her smile gentle yet tinged with fondness.

“A fountain pen?”

I opened the gift box in the bag and found a fountain pen lying quietly inside.

The fountain pen had a special engraving on its cap, making it classier.

“A good gift, isn’t it? As you and I are writers, we both love to write.”

“You can write well, can’t you? Could you please share one of your handwritten stories for me to read? I love to read books rather than online stories.”

I suddenly recalled my high-school teacher not only telling me my handwriting was awful but also that I often had a lot of typos.

“Haha, I love it. Why would I hate it?”

Then, I noticed the brand name on the gift box.
“Montblanc?”

“Hm? What seems to be the problem?”
“No, I’ve never heard of this brand before.”
I scrutinised the pen, yet I couldn’t find out anything.

I put the pen back into the box with extra care, as if it were a delicate gem, and put the box back into the bag.

I smiled and thanked Pozëmka.
“Anyways, I appreciate your gift.”
“Say, how do you know my birthday?”
She maintained her elegant demeanour, placing her cup of coffee on the table and leaning back slowly in the chair.

“I wanted to read more of your stories, yet I stumbled across your post about you celebrating your birthday.”

“I hope this doesn’t offend you.”
“No, no, why would it offend me? I am just surprised that you like my work so much that you went on my social media account to find more.”
She drank the rest of the coffee in the cup, stood up slowly, straightened her dress, and asked me.

“Let’s take a spin around, shall we?”

“It’s my first time here too, and I wanted to get a feel for the atmosphere and how it’s different from where I was.”

She held her hand out to me, as if she were a gentleman asking his partner to waltz.

I placed my hand onto hers. She gave it a gentle tug, and I cooperated with her well to stand up from my chair.

It was at this moment I found out that I was half a head taller than her.

Yet she was still taller and more elegant than those dancers online.

“Very much of a gentleman, Miss Pozëmka.”

I laughed as I joked about it, attempting to further bridge the gap between us.

“Call me Avdotya. You allowed me to call you by your name, so you shall also have the right to call me by my name.”
“Then, Pozëmka is your…”
“Pseudonym. It’s my pseudonym.”

“Even your pseu-… pen name is filled with literary, impressive.”
“Pseudonym. Can you say, pseu-do-nym?”

She teased me, teaching me to pronounce words as if I were in pre-school.

At that moment, a gentle breeze lifted her cascading hair; she was just like a porcelain doll with those soft glances of hers.

The sound of me gulping was audible; the view around her seemed to blur, as if time stopped now and became an unescapable yet pleasing cage.

She noticed something was wrong with me, her gaze covered with a layer of concern, and asked me.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

“No, I was just looking at something astonishing.”

Her gaze darted around, yet she didn’t see anything “astonishing” as I said.

Then, she realised I was looking at her the whole time.
“Is he praising me?”

She thought to herself, completely unaware that her cheeks were blushing.

And just like that, we bathed in the dappled sun, admiring the view around us, chatting.

Time flies. After we had lunch, it was about time for her to leave.

We sat in a high-end restaurant, despite her saying that she wanted to have a meal at the café.

She used a napkin to wipe away the stain at the corner of her lips and said.

“Then I’ll leave early? I need to speak with my editor later.”

“Sure, see you next time.”
With that, she picked up her bill and left.

The days went on the same way, yet a dash of pink appeared in my boring, ordinary life.

Yet, that dash of pink seems to be everywhere.

But we didn’t chat more online because of this intimate relationship.

Because Pozëmka, no, Avdotya, always invited me to some new café, or some new restaurant to chat, to have a meal, or to have high tea.

I found this activity time-wasting, yet it made my boring Saturday afternoon more meaningful.

So can I use the word, waste?

I don’t think so.

Indubitably, I found myself attracted to her, no matter if it’s her literary prowess, her temperament, or her look.

Despite that, I found I was more self-abased as I was more attracted to her.

Every time I marvelled at her stories, I could feel the room becoming colder, which made me more numb, allowing me to realise the difference between us.

Her words are like phantoms; they haunted me every time I wrote, reminding me that my words were plain, monotonous.

She was the last ray of the dusk, shining on me, warming me for a while, and forcing me to give it back.

Yet I was a selfish person; I wanted that ray of warm light for myself, even though it would always slip away from my fingertips.

The nights were always more torturous than the mornings.

The dimly lit room, the bustling city out of the window, and the frustrating thoughts were what kept me from falling asleep.

Yet none of these can compare to silence.

The overly quiet room was starting to give me ringing in my ears, making me more annoyed.

However, there were only numbing bed sheets, and that sense of coldness from the sheets, combined with the silence, made the night even more tormenting.

No one to talk to, no one to hug.

My companions in the night were the stillness, moonlight, and maddening thoughts.

But life goes on, even though I missed her at two in the morning, even though I wanted to smoke and drink some whiskey.

Except, I couldn’t endure the discomfort from smoking, nor the burning sensation from the wine.

I had thought that life would go on like that. I would miss her at night and meet her the next day, chatting with her in the morning.

Unfortunately, my creation went viral on the Internet.

A not-so-famous content creator online, whose content usually involved reviewing stories, had stumbled across my work.

As it had Avdotya’s comment, it evoked his curiosity, and he decided to check it out.

Yet, this was what he said.

“I still don’t understand what is so good about his story. Which part of the story is capable of prompting Miss Pozëmka to leave a comment? To praise it?”

“In my opinion, this story is a satire by an amateur; no, this story isn’t qualified to be called a satire.”
“I could see what the author was up to. He was trying to use this story to satirise the quick love nowadays.”

“But clearly, he wrote this story in a rush, which is a bit ironic as he was trying to satirise quick love, no?”
“This is Miss Pozëmka’s comment.”

“A very engaging piece of writing, with interesting metaphors, smooth writing, and good handling of articulation, yet some parts are redundant, some dialogues are a bit stiff and lacklustre, and some of the character details are skimpily portrayed and still need more improvement.”

He added weight to the adjectives in the comment, especially those which were praising my story.

He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he wanted to make fun of me.

“The story was as tasteless as the porridge my mother cooked.”
“Instead, I only read a boring, ordinary love story, about a low-self-esteem boy trying to find his love.”

“The story was dull, and you can recognise metaphors or writing styles from other writers in this story.”

“I have compared the author’s story with Miss Pozëmka’s; some parts of the story were similar, no, identical to Miss Pozëmka’s.”

“This writer is nothing but a copycat who craves Miss Pozëmka’s attention, so he stole some ideas from Miss Pozëmka’s stories and wove them into his own story.”

“On the other hand, Miss Pozëmka is too kind to give harsh comments to her fans, so she can only praise the nice parts of his story and neglect the worst parts of the story.”

“This writer is nothing but a guy with a little girl in his heart who craves attention and can’t be insulted.”

“He amuses me.”
The video soon drew attention on the Internet, especially because Avdotya was involved.

The video went viral eventually.

Photos of me hanging out with Avdotya got leaked to the Internet, causing theories to spread online.

Theories were different; this was normal, yet there was one common notion:

“I was trying to develop a relationship with Avdotya, a relationship that went beyond friends, beyond fans and idol, a relationship that can scratch the boundaries of love.

And this was very unlikely to happen, yet I was cripplingly attached to this relationship.”

Because of this video, my work was swamped with negative comments, either making fun of me straightforwardly or sarcastically.

They were all laughing at my whimsy.

Their comments weren’t focused on that widely criticised work; the knight story, the love stories I wrote before, were filled with mean and hateful comments.

As if those comments were a flood of pitch black towards me, and as suffocating as a pair of hands wrapped around my neck.

And as if those were shadows, following me everywhere I went.

And as if those were strings of eyes, judging everything I did.

I felt unsafe at home. I felt unsafe everywhere!

All the things in my home were lifeless, yet I could see distorted shadows, stretching their jaws, wanting to swallow me alive with my bones.

I think it was time for me to talk to Avdotya.

I bought a quite expensive grape soda at my local supermarket. It was made like a wine bottle, and there was even a cork at the mouth of the bottle.

I sent a message to her, asking her if she was available and if I could have dinner with her tonight.

She was a bit surprised to see this message but didn’t think much of it and said yes.

After all, I have invited her to have dinner at my place multiple times; the only difference is that we were having dinner at her place.

I took the grape juice and the fountain pen and went to her place.

In the evening, I took a deep breath and knocked on her door.

Soon, Avdotya answered the door, wearing a blouse-like dress.

She had a soft smile on her face, and her voice was tender.

“Please come in.”

I marvelled at the interior finishing of her house; it was quaint and grand.

There were many paintings, decorations.

These all reminded me that the gap between us was larger than I could imagine.

Really, I have to end this relationship.

I placed the grape juice on the table and slid the bag with the fountain pen under the table, and asked.

“What ingredients do you have in the fridge?”

She opened her fridge and said with a smile.
“Everything you can imagine.”

“I can deal with dinner on my own. Why don’t you busy yourself as I cook?”
“All right then, I won’t bother you now.”
I wasn’t in the mood for a fancy or creative dinner.

Even though I didn’t put much effort into tonight’s dinner, Avdotya was still a bit surprised to see the results.

She slowly pulled the cork out of the bottle, and a loud noise was heard.

She looked at me, puzzled.

“Is this a bottle of champagne?”
She poured the grape juice into my wine glass, and that’s when it dawned on her.

“Oh, it was just grape juice. By the way, why do I never see you drink?”

“Ah, yes, I could never endure the scorching or bitter feel of alcohol.”

Avdotya smiled at the words, and I could only laugh in embarrassment.

Sweat started to seep from my forehead, my grip on the fork and knife was tighter, until my nails sank into my palm.

Avdotya continued to tell me trivial things; I barely had the chance to talk to her, and I could only respond politely.

It seemed like she already knew why I was here.

No, there’s no way she didn’t know the reason for my presence at her house.

My story and the video went viral on the Internet, and the virality wouldn’t disappear that easily.

“Say, have you seen the…”
“That’s it, Avdotya. I have something to tell you.”

I placed my utensils down and stared at Avdotya; my gaze wasn’t moving an inch.

Yet, Avdotya seemed to be unperturbed; she slowly brought a piece of steak into her mouth.

After she swallowed the food, she placed her utensils down as well, looking at me, smirking.

“Is it about being humiliated by the blogger?”
“Yes, but I think…”
“I am dealing with him right now. I’m sure he will apologise for his ignorance.”
“No, what I want to say is, goodbye. We should never contact each other ever again.”
Avdotya’s gaze dropped on me, hoping to see a trace of a lie, a hint of a joke on my facial expression.

Yet, she could only see seriousness and sincerity on my face, as if this thing was non-negotiable.

“But why?”
Avdotya was trying her best to maintain her demeanour, yet she was shaking her legs, and her fingertips were tapping on the table nervously.

These all betrayed her.

My gaze landed on the table, on the napkins, and on the wine glass, but I didn’t dare to look straight into her eyes.

Why? I have already rehearsed this scene a million times, yet I still lack the bravery to bring myself to look at her.

“I couldn’t endure the fame you brought to me; there are too many negative comments swarming towards me. Finding your comment was just like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“I am already dealing with it. I’m sure the vlogger will post an apology online. I was even thinking about hiring you for our company. You can be a columnist; someone will admire your work!”

“It’s too much for me to bear! There are too many hate comments. Some of your crazy fans are trying to dox me! Hoping I will cut our relationship this way.”
“Besides, by doing so, aren’t you tantamount to me going through the back door? If my work needs such a dishonourable method to be appreciated, then I’d rather remain unknown for the rest of my life!”

I took a deep breath, and I found my hands shaking, yet I finally found the courage to stare at Avdotya.

“You will never understand. We are not the same group of people. No matter how stylishly I adorn myself, no matter how talented I am in writing, we are not the same type of person.”
Because of the aggressive feelings, my pupils were trembling.

The tension was building inside the room, tense enough to be cut with a knife.

“You are a writer with a high-paying salary, while I still have to pay my rent, my debts. You’re the star; you belong under the spotlight. The amount of money you get from writing a slogan might be equivalent to my monthly salary.”
“There’s a gap between us, an invisible wall. It was all because of your fame, your talents.”
“No matter how low you bend, there is still a gap. I can’t jump up, and you can’t bend any lower.”
“Think about it, apart from literature, what is there to connect us?”
“This connection is even wobbling. I’m nowhere near as talented as you. Every time you tell me about some literary work, I feel like I’m an actor, pretending I know what you’re talking about.”
“This relationship has to end, Av-Avdotya?”
I saw something glimmer in her eyes. Were those tears?

I should have comforted her like a gentleman, like I should have.

But I didn’t. I didn’t want to go through my mistakes again.

I stared at her quietly and apologised slowly.

“My apologies, I lost my composure.”

“Also, I’ve looked up the price of that fountain pen.”

I pulled out the bag from under the table and placed it on the table.

“Montblanc, isn’t it? The fountain pen was about fourteen thousand. It’s too expensive; I can’t afford to receive such a luxurious gift.”

I pushed the bag towards her and decided to leave.

As I got to the portico, she caught up and asked.

“So, you think that all this happened is because of me?”

I paused for a moment. The door I was about to close stopped. I turned around slowly and answered.

“No, it’s my fault. I don’t deserve you.”

With that, I closed the door and disappeared at the corner of the street.

Hearing the door shut, Avdotya’s tears finally dropped.

She bit her lower lip hard until she could taste copper, yet still wasn’t able to stop her tears from flowing.

She grasped an envelope, the letter inside crumpled.

A beautiful scrawl was read on the envelope.

“To my dearest Caleb.”

Life goes on; that incident soon lost its popularity, and my life had returned to peace once again.

However, the keyboard in my room was covered with a thin layer of dust, and that splash of pink was disappearing from my life.

The bridge I had built between myself and literature was falling into pieces, just as the connection between me and Avdotya was.

My life was starting to be painted with black, white, and grey.

I no longer stopped on the road because of the blooming flowers and the setting sun.

My world was losing its colour.

My world became one-dimensional; I was travelling between two points, my workspace and my apartment.

All the imagination, all the passion, were crumbling into a million pieces.

As if I were an abandoned doll, lying in an unknown place, slowly waiting for myself to rot.

Yet my beating heart wouldn’t give up; every night, that splash of pink still slipped into my heart.

Foxes were always this cunning.

I turned off my terminal, lights flickered outside my room, and the bustling scene seeped into my room, yet stopped right beside my bed.

I wanted to reach out and feel the hustle and bustle of the city.

Yet I could only catch the pale white moonlight.

I backed up to the corner of my bed, hoping to escape the moonlight.

But the moon was hanging high, and the moonlight still spilt all over me.

I sat on the bed alone, quietly waiting for the night to pass. I didn’t sleep last night.

The next day, I had a sick leave.

I was torn between protecting the very last dignity of mine and going to find Avdotya.

At last, I abandoned my amusing dignity.

I still went to find Avdotya.

I traced my memories and now stood in front of Avdotya’s door.

I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

A while later, there was nothing heard from the house, so I pressed the doorbell again.
“Ding Dong.”

I was certainly sure that the doorbell wasn’t broken.

Yet, there wasn’t even a slight creak that could be heard, let alone footsteps.

“Third time’s the charm, right?”
I comforted myself and pressed the doorbell one more time.

However, there was still nothing that could be heard.

I sighed.

Before I left, I slipped on the carpet that was lying at the portico.

Surprisingly, a tiny object was kicked out by me.

Out of curiosity, I picked up the object.

It was a key, with a note tied to it.

It read.

“Welcome, Caleb.”
Confusion grew. I walked towards her door one more time and inserted the key into the keyhole.

“Sorry, Avdotya.”
Then, I turned the key and walked into her house.

The interior of her house was almost the same as the one in my memory, with expensive paintings and decorations around.

“Avdotya? Avdotya!”

I called for her, yet no one answered.

“No one’s home?”

My confusion aggravated.

I walked to the dining table where I fought with her and found that an envelope was lying next to a bag.

Inside the bag was indubitably the fountain pen she gave me.

And I eventually noticed the envelope read.

“To my dearest Caleb”
I slowly opened the envelope and took out the slightly creased letter.

“To my dearest Caleb,

Please forgive me. Even though you hoped I would call you Cal, I still think calling you by your name would make this letter more formal.

As you read this letter, you can more or less guess my feelings towards you, right?
That luxurious fountain pen, the number of times that I went on a date with you—these are some very noticeable signs, right?

Yet Caleb, your brain seemed to be made out of wood. Why are my hints already this obvious, and yet you still missed them?

Sorry, I was a bit frustrated.

Since you still haven’t taken that step and walked towards me, allow me to take that step for you.

All I want to say is, you make me feel safe, and I don’t need to pay close attention to you.

Because of my past, I usually set boundaries with people, ensure they won’t cross them and inflict damage on me.

However, I still don’t know why you made me feel at ease, safe.

Before I knew it, you had already pulled me towards you like a whirlpool.

And our fates are entwined like the whirlpool.

At countless sunrises and sunsets, I always think of you, hoping to admire this romantic view with you.

I want to enjoy every sunrise and sunset with you and rest in your arms for a while.

How romantic shall that be?
How relaxing shall that be?

Because of my past, I may not be as straightforward as I express my love to you.

But please, have my words: I love you with all my heart, till there’s nothing left in it.

I wish that you were always by my side when the early morning light shines on me.

I wish that you were always by my side when the late-night moon glow shines on me.

You wouldn’t know that in countless nights, the distance between us is breaking my spirit.

I can only look up and gaze upon the moon, telling all my wishes, all my thoughts to it, wishing that you will look at the moon at the same time and know my feelings towards you.

Oh, Caleb, please forgive me for being so tactful, yet I can’t be as direct as people nowadays when it comes to expressing love.

I wish that when you see the tip of my ears burn in a deep crimson, or when you see a dash of scarlet climb up onto my neck, you already know my feelings towards you.

That way, by the time you read this letter, you will have already thought about your answer, and I won’t have to wait so long for your reply.

Still, I wish to say one single sentence.

I love you, I really, really do.

Love,

Avdotya Nikolayevna Ivanova”

After reading through the letter, I could feel the emptiness in my heart, as if it was no longer filled with warm blood, but with cold emptiness.

I slowly slipped the letter back into the envelope and decided to take a close look once more at the fountain pen she had gifted me.

I took out the box with the pen carefully from the bag and didn’t want any more creases on the bag.

I opened the box slowly, and what caught my eye wasn’t only the fountain pen, but also a note.

It read.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
A short poem followed it, which I couldn’t understand.

It wasn’t because the poem was too difficult for me to read, but because it was written in a language that I couldn’t understand.

I took out my terminal and translated the poem.

It was written in Siracusan.

“Our love is as acrid as lemon,

Yet I couldn’t forget the sweet taste beneath the sour.

I am addicted to you,

Just like I’m addicted to the scent of lemons.

I believe we will meet again,

Under a lemon tree in Limone Sul Garda.”

The poem stops here abruptly; the scent of lemon on the note was very strong.

I stared at the note and the letter; my thumb was brushing against them, trying to feel the last of the love on them.

That poem, that letter, seemed to be the last tenderness she left me.

I want to go and find her. The hint underlying in the letter was obvious, but the question is.

Do I have the courage to find her?

Am I going to give up like this?

Am I going to allow self-abasement to be the wall between us again?

But what if it was too late when I got there?

What if she already had another person by her side?

Wouldn’t that just make me feel sadder?

Reflecting on this, I put the box back in the bag and took everything she had given me home.

I wanted to place all of them back on my bookshelf and never touch them ever again.

However, in the following days, I felt them becoming increasingly obtrusive; my gaze often dropped to those things.

I took the letter down again and read it slowly, feeling the love hidden between words.

I couldn’t stand the torment of that unrequited love; even if she already had a new love, I still had to see it with my own eyes.

“The distance between us is breaking my spirit.”

I finally felt what this sentence means.

I am going to find her.

Then allow this journey to become needles and threads, to become a scissor.

Either we would mend our relationship.

Or I would be done with her.

I took a week’s holiday, packed my bags, and headed outside.

Verona’s Valerio Catullo Airport is the closest airport to the “lemon town,” just half an hour from the shores of Lake Garda.

But it was also the most expensive destination I’ve ever had.

It was also the longest flight I’ve ever been on, nearly twenty hours.

“Forget it, I’ll go to Siracusa to have one of their espressos. I’m sure that will keep me wide awake.”
I comforted myself.

After that flight, I finally arrived in Verona.

Let us hope that I wasn’t too late, such that she would be here, and not at another place around the globe.

I showed some of the previous photos of her with me to the shopkeepers on the side of the road, passers-by, but most of them shook their heads, having never seen her.

At last, I couldn’t stand the searing sun outside, so I decided to stay at a cheap hotel and rest.

In the next days, my footsteps could be found all around Limone, but I still haven’t found her.

“I’m not too late, am I?”

I whispered to myself.

I have already lost the passion I had when I got here.

I strolled on the streets, yet I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy the view.

I stared at the light blue sky, and I felt my heart was stuffy, yet I couldn’t find the reason why.

The waves crashed towards the shores and slowly receded.

People were chit-chatting around the shore, and the bustling noise was growing louder and louder.

Yet as I watched, the waves rose and fell, and I felt the long-lost tranquillity in my heart.

I wanted to sit by the shore, waiting for the night to pass slowly, waiting for the very last few drops of hope to be drained from my heart slowly.

The hustle and bustle had nothing to do with me; neither did I belong here nor in my homeland.

I didn’t belong to any place in this world.

I only belonged to the Utopia I created, a Utopia where Avdotya was by my side.

I sat on the sand, waiting for the night to fall, waiting for the night to go.

The breeze swept away the noise from my ears, leaving me with tranquillity.

After such an ephemeral moment of caprice, I would have to go back to the dull, lifeless workplace.

At least if my life were predictable, then there wouldn’t be any disappointment, no?

Then, a voice pierced through the quietness next to my ears, extra noisy.

“Is the view really that captivating? It’s pitch dark out here. Can you even see a thing?”
My body shuddered.

I turned my head and saw a familiar smile.

The pink hair, deft ears, fluffy tail, elegant demeanour, tenderness in her eyes, the delicate face.
It was definitely her, Avdotya.

“Ah! It’s you.”
The reunion wasn’t as touching or as surprising as I thought.

It was only a male and a female, sitting under the evening breeze, chatting quietly.

“Avdotya, I…”
“If you are trying to apologise or something like that, then it would be best to keep it to yourself.”
Everything I wanted to say was stuck in my throat, my heart dropped, and I was left speechless.

“Do you want to try this?”
“Sorry?”

“My special blend.”

Until now, I had not noticed that Avdotya was holding a light pink drink in her hand. Many bubbles were clinging to the ice, to the glass, and the drink looked refreshing.

“There’s no alcohol in it, right?”

“You will know if you take a sip~”
She showed a mischievous smile, as if waiting for me to jump into the trap she set for me.

I took a small sip.

Instead of the searing feel, the bitter taste, there was a hint of sweetness, a hint of peach.

And a strong taste of lemon.

“How was it?”
“Is this a mocktail?”
“I put vodka inside.”
A trace of surprise was shown on my face.

I then took another sip and still didn’t taste the alcohol.

She was still maintaining her demeanour and said.

“Maybe it isn’t that you can’t drink; it’s just you can only drink what suits you.”

I stared at her; the smile on her face was gone, and the words seemed to allude to something.

And I could read it clearly.

The hope of mending this relationship was getting dimmer.

As she was about to leave, I stopped her.

“Avdotya!”

“Yes?”

“I have read the letter you left, Avdotya Nikolayevna Ivanova. I wish to witness every sunrise in my life with you, and I hope that you will be at my side no matter what.”

She studied me closely.

After a short while, she wore a smile that looked like relief and said.

“I understand.”

Then she left me alone on the beach and walked away.

I looked at her back as she walked away; the little to no hope turned into glimmers of starlight, blending into the stars.

I sat on the sand, alone, drinking her special blend, feeling the very last of the love she left me, and decided to throw away the cup after finishing the drink.

Her words surrounded me in my mind.

“Maybe it isn’t that you can’t drink; it’s just you can only drink what suits you.”

I looked at the half-empty drink. I was a bit dizzy, and there was a hint of bitterness on my tongue, even though the drink was sweet.

I felt like I wasted a lot of time here.

I was supposed to accept the result, no matter how bad it is.

Why was I starting to feel blue now?

Memories crashed into my mind as if waves crash towards the shores; the bits and pieces of memories with her turned into stars sprinkled across the sky.

“It’s already nighttime?”
I drank the very last of the drink inside the cup and headed to the trash can.

Yet I stopped in front of it.

“I drank the drink she gave me.”

“That was the special drink she gave me, and I drank all of it.”
“This drink suits me. I can drink the whole thing.”

I stared at the cup in my hand, mumbled.

“Would this be her hint?”
Deep inside, I was struggling. I was worrying about my infatuation, wanting to put a yoke on my courage called inferiority.

I didn’t want to lose something more, to lose something that I see as a treasure.

“But I already have nothing to lose.”
In the end, I still kept that cup.

I walked into a bar, hoping to find somebody who knew where Avdotya was.

I typed in the question, translated it into Siracusan, and asked the bartender.

“Do you know a girl who goes by the name Avdotya? Her hair, ears, and tail were pink.”

The bartender nodded his head; the dog ears on his head twitched.

I gave him my phone, and he used the translator to type in the response.

“Yes, she often brings some lemons for us to make a drink. You want to find her?”
I nodded.

He then used the translator to reply.

“Unfortunately, I have no clue where she lives. I just know her name by now. Is there anything that I can help you with?”
I sighed and thanked him in Siracusan, then left.

“Why do you love to play hide-and-seek so much?”

Then, the last sentence of the poem rushed into my mind.

“I believe we will meet again, under a lemon tree in Limone Sul Garda.”

Maybe she has a lemon tree growing at her house?

Maybe she is waiting for me at her house.

I looked at the lit houses around me and decided to ask every single person door-to-door.

If she often came to this bar, then she should have lived near here.

Finally, I found out where she lived from an old woman’s mouth.

“Oh! You must be the boy that Avdotya mentioned often. You look identical to the photos she showed me! I thought you two lived together!”

Her dog tail wagged happily behind her. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and said.

“Here, I baked some blueberry pie. Come on, take some over and share with her, you two loving birds.”

Seeing how zealous she was, I took the pie from her hand and left.

A short while later, and a little bit of a climb, I finally arrived at Avdotya’s house.

A fresh scent of lemon rushed up into my nostrils.

I looked up and found that a lemon tree was planted in the front yard, in front of the portico.

After some hesitation, I pressed the doorbell.

“Ding dong!”
The crisp doorbell was heard, yet it wasn’t the electronic modern doorbell; it was more of a quaint, silver doorbell.

Waiting always felt extraordinarily long; fortunately, not long after, the door opened.

“Good evening, Caleb.”

“It’s been a long time.”

She walked towards me, standing with me under a lemon tree.

She was wearing a sleeveless blouse, a brown scarf draped around her neck, and underneath was a black dress and a pair of sandals.

“As I said, we shall meet again, under a lemon tree in Limone Sul Garda.”
She smirked, then sidestepped; her implication was clear.

I walked inside, passed through the corridor, and arrived at the living room.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“Right, you can throw the cup you’re holding here.”
She smiled as she said, then walked past me to grab a cup of tea in the kitchen.

“I thought about the message you left, asked your neighbour, and found you here.”

“Gee, I am terrible when it comes to keeping my address a secret. Let’s see, it was from Mrs. Duffel, hm?”
“Who?”
“That kind old lady who has dog ears and a tail, no?”
“Then it should be her.”
“She loved talking to people, especially over food, and talking about things she shouldn’t talk about.”

“See, I have this little tummy, all because every time I meet her, she always stuffs me full with different delicacies.”

She pulled up her shirt and pinched the little belly of hers gently.

“Ah! Yes, Mrs. Duffel gave us some blueberry pie to share.”
I took out the box, and inside was the blueberry pie, which looked delicious.

“Really? We should thank her if we have time!”
“So, Avdotya.”
I stared at her, scrutinising her features, not wanting to miss a single detail.

My tone changed, my gaze was masked with sincerity, and I said.

“I’m deeply, terribly sorry about that day. I didn’t control my tone, and I allowed my low self-esteem to take hold of me. It made me more sensitive, thinking that we weren’t a match.”

“I owe you my apology. I didn’t want to say those things. Yet my emotion took control of me, making me say some wounding things, which hurt you.”
“I wish to seek forgiveness from you, even though I know I don’t deserve it.”
She took a sip of her tea, yet said nothing.

What was she looking at?

Looking at me, it didn’t seem so.

Looking at the ceiling? That’s ridiculous.

Looking at her cup of tea? That’s madness.

The atmosphere in the room became increasingly oppressive; the quietness in the room was growing more annoying.

“Isn’t that last sentence of yours a reflection of low self-esteem?”

Her smile was wiped away, and she stared at me quietly.

I was utterly speechless at that time and didn’t know what to say to her.

“But…”
“Answer me.”
Her gaze seemed to be more piercing, as if she could look straight into my soul.

I started to avert my gaze unintentionally.

Yet a sense of courage started to gather at the deepest part of my heart.

Why did I always run away from my mistakes?

Why did I need to run away from my past?
I looked straight into her eyes, took a deep breath, and said.

“I’m really sorry for having such a troublesome personality, but believe me, I am trying to change.”

She held my hand gently, her eyes filled with tenderness.

“I am really, really, really glad to hear you say something like this.”
“Do you know why I came to Siracusa?”
“Why?”
“I will explain now, silly~”
“Because I am certain of one thing: as long as you don’t make any changes, neither will our broken relationship.”
“Then why did you come to Siracusa?”
“Because, if you are willing to come, then I believe you have already reflected on our past and mustered enough courage to come and face our relationship.”
“And you must have enough courage to fix what’s broken between us.”
I stared at Avdotya; my ability to speak seemed to be cut by her words.

“What’s wrong?”
“N-No, nothing. I was just thinking about something else.”
“How dare you think of something else as I was talking to you! Seems like I need to teach you a lesson!”
Her arms akimbo, pretending to be angry, elicited a smirk from me.

Then, she got up and went upstairs.

“Where are you going?”
“Going to work. You think that money grows on trees?”
“Why are you still standing there? You’re not coming with me?”

“Wait, coming!”
As I arrived at her studies, I stared at her quietly.

She was using a typewriter to write something, and it was all in Siracusan, which I didn’t understand.

“I am writing a story for a newspaper outlet.”
A while later, Avdotya naturally noticed my curiosity and explained.

“By the way, did you bring any clothes here? My closet only has skirts~”
She turned her head towards me, smirking.

Undeniably, I have already fallen into the galaxies hidden in her eyes.

It was merely a small action, a normal question, yet it was enough to be captivating.

Her every word, her every action, tugged at my heartstrings.

“Hm? Caleb?”
Then, I finally came back to my senses and replied.

“Yes, I brought a few pieces.”
Because of all the labour today, I yawned uncontrollably.

“Why don’t you take a shower first? You seem to be exhausted.”

“Yes, a shower would be great.”
I went to the living room to grab my clothes.

But before I left, I had one more question.

“Avdotya.”

“Hm, yes?”
She answered me lazily, as if she were a cat that was stretching under the sun.
“We are now—”
“We are now couples~”

“Really? But—”
“You read my letter, no? Then do you accept my love?”
“I do accept. I love you…”
“I love you as well~”
“All right, now, take a shower~ My work is nearly finished.”
She pushed me out of her studies, smiling.

After a while, I sat on a chair on the balcony in her bedroom, drawing Limone’s night view.

Then, Avdotya walked behind me and asked.
“Still staying up late?”
“Oh, I was waiting for you.”
“Silly you, why would you want to wait for me?”
“Because I was suddenly not—hoooah, tired.”

“Your yawn wasn’t very convincing~”

She teased me, and I put away my notebook and went to sit with her on the bed.

Her fox ears twitched on her head, and she asked.

“Will you be staying here, or will you continue your life as a programmer?”
“I’m not really sure… Maybe I will write stories for a newspaper outlet just like you?”
“Hey! I gave you food and shelter, and you return the favour by stealing my job?”

“All right, all right, maybe I will open a cafe here and serve you coffee every day?”
“Hmph, that’s more like it.”

She let out a light huff, her expression cute.

“By the way, thank you, Avdotya, for everything you’ve done.”

“I hope I can spend the rest of my life with you. I love you.”
“Of course, we will definitely be together for the rest of our lives. I wouldn’t bear to leave you.”

“It’s bedtime now, hm?”
It was getting late, so I asked her.

“Of course~”
In a split second, Avdotya pecked me on the cheek, and she grinned at me, seeming to be laughing at my reaction.

“Avdotya?”

“What? You don’t love my kiss? You can’t even handle a little goodnight kiss?”
I patted her head gently, my words filled with tenderness.

“Sleep now, stop fooling around.”
I turned off the lamp next to our bed; the moonlight shone on the bed, shone on Avdotya’s face.

“Say, will you be able to sleep after the tea you drank?”
“I saw it online! It said that it won’t affect my sleep and can even help me sleep better!”

After a short while, Avdotya whined in a small voice.

“Caleb… I can’t fall asleep.”
I turned on the lamp, sighed.

“That’s what you get for drinking tea before bedtime.”
“Would you want me to read you a bedtime story?”
“All right~”
She trailed off and agreed with a coquettish voice.

I grabbed a book near our bed, and the next thing I knew, it was written in Siracusan.

“Oops~ Sorry, I forgot that you don’t speak Siracusan~”
“Aren’t you a writer? Why don’t you come up with a story right now?”
“Huh, that’s easy to say.”
Because of the caffeine, Avdotya was much more energetic than me.

Soon, my eyelids felt heavy, and I fell asleep in Avdotya’s arms.

“Aren’t you supposed to read me a story? How come you fell asleep much before me!”
Avdotya pulled me closer to her, and she pressed a gentle kiss on my forehead and whispered.

“Good night, Caleb.”
“Love you.”