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There’s an angel standing underneath the streetlamp.
At least, Megan is pretty sure that it’s an angel. Realistically, it was probably just a woman in a white dress. It was pretty hard to tell when it’s some time past 2 a.m. and she's like eight shots in.
So, she stops, points her kebab at her, and slurs: “Are you an angel?”
The woman under the light goes still.
“You’re not supposed to be able to see me.”
Oh.
Oh Lara’s going to kill her that she got so drunk she is, like, actually hallucinating. This is worse than the time she chased a fox around their backyard insisting that she would be the one to finally domesticate them. Or maybe it was worse then — no, actually, this was pretty high up there.
“I’m not?” She asks dumbly.
“Mortals aren’t supposed to see me.”
Megan giggles at that, she can’t help it that the sound just slips out of her. This all feels so absurd, especially coming from a woman who has got to be around the same age as her. She has long straight black hair and big brown eyes that were absolutely boring holes into Megan. She wasn’t sure if she had blinked yet.
But then the woman moves out of the street lamp’s light and Megan’s laughter comes to a halt.
Oh, holy shit. Those are wings. Big ones, white and feathery that flutter behind the woman — the angel, she supposes. They arch up and out, easily spanning twice her height.
“Yes, they are.”
So she said that out loud. Cool.
“They’re, like, really big.”
The woman doesn't seem super phased, just kind of glances at her back and shrugs, the movement causing her wings to ripple in response. “I am aware.” She takes a pause. “You're drunk.”
“I mean, yeah.” Megan agrees. “But like, you’re real? I’m not, like, hallucinating or anything, right?”
“You’re not hallucinating right now,” the angel confirms. “But you will not remember me come tomorrow.”
“That’s no fun.” Megan takes another bite of her kebab. It’s gone cold. “So what’s your name?”
The angel hesitates for just a moment before offering: “Sophia.”
Megan tilts her head. “Seems like a normal name to me.”
Sophia frowns slightly; she seems affronted.
“No! It’s a pretty name!” Megan blurts. “I just expected something, I dunno, more biblical...?”
The corner of Sophia’s mouth twitches, and the air around her glows. “You’re strange,” she murmurs after a moment.
“Thanks.” Megan grins, proud of herself. “You’re glowing.”
The halo of light around Sophia shifts, fluttering faintly at the edges. “That happens sometimes.”
“Cool, cool.” Megan nods, as if this explains everything. “So, uh — are you like… Christian or Catholic or, like, who’s right?”
“I serve the Lord.”
“Right. Right.” Megan frowns a little, twisting the jade bracelet on her wrist. “You know, sometimes I pray to God. I’m not Christian or anything,” Megan says quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Like, I don’t even know what I believe in. But sometimes I feel desperate enough that I hope someone’s listening.”
“He listens, Megan,” Sophia says, there's no judgement in her face. “Even when you don’t believe He is.”
"This is so fucking weird coming from an actual angel." Megan laughs, wobbly. “Wait, how do you know my name?”
Sophia looks at her for a long time. “You told me once.”
“Once?”
Sophia’s poise falters, just for a split second. Then, she shakes her head, deflecting: “You shouldn’t walk home alone.”
Megan squints at her. “Wait, no, what do you mean by—”
“You are drunk,” Sophia cuts her off, already falling into step beside her. “And I would feel negligent, if I let you wander off like this.”
Megan squints at her, trying to hold onto the question, but it slips away. “You really are an angel,” she mutters instead.
And that’s that. Megan forgets to push further, her mind catching on counting their steps instead of the strangeness of what Sophia said. They walk through the quiet streets together, silence settling between them. Megan’s kebab is long gone; she’s holding the skewer like a sword. Sophia offered to throw it away. Megan refused.
Every few steps, Megan finds herself mesmerized by the wings trailing behind Sophia. They don't drag on the ground despite their size — they hover just above the pavement, the tips of the feathers occasionally brushing against brick walls as they pass narrow alleyways.
Megan glances over at Sophia and squints. “You know,” she says, voice fuzzy, “you’re really pretty.”
Sophia turns her head slightly to look at Megan. “Pretty?”
“Yeah, like, angels in paintings are sometimes those ugly little babies—”
“—Those are cherubs.”
“Whatever, but like,” Megan continues, gesturing vaguely with the skewer, stabbing it in the air, “you’re not one of those. You’re—” She pauses, sorting through the mess of words in her head. “You’re like, beautiful.”
The streetlight’s glow catches in Sophia’s eyes, turning them to gold for a second. “I am glad,” she says slowly, parsing her words, “that I appear that way to you.”
Megan laughs, a small, disbelieving sound that hiccups on its way out. “'Appear' that way? Are you, like, actually one of those biblically accurate angels? You know, with the billion eyes and wings and the whole ‘be not afraid’ thing?”
“Would it frighten you if I were?” Sophia asks .As if to emphasize the point, her wings spread out a little wider for just a moment. The feathers seem to shimmer with their own light, and Megan has to resist the urge to reach out and touch them.
Megan squints at her, swaying slightly. “I mean… depends. How many eyes are we talking—”
Sophia’s laugh this time is melodic, it lilts through the night air and it sounds like windchimes. “Then it is good you see me this way.”
Megan hums, considering that. “Yeah, I guess so. Still, kinda wish I could see the real you. I mean, if I’m gonna forget anyway.”
“You would not survive it.”
“Oh.” Megan blinks. “That’s… wow.”
Sophia tilts her head, a little confused. “You asked.”
“I did,” Megan admits, a lopsided grin pulling at her mouth. “You’re kinda scary, you know that?”
Sophia’s wings twitch faintly. “I know.”
They walk the next few steps in silence. Megan keeps sneaking glances, eyes wide and wondering, as if she still can’t quite believe this person — this angel — is real and walking next to her.
“You’re still pretty, though,” she says at last, quieter now. “Even if you’ve got, like, a hundred hidden eyeballs.”
Sophia laughs beside her.
By the time they reach her building, Megan’s buzz has softened into that delicate, woozy space between exhaustion and awe. The street is silent save their footsteps.
Megan stops and turns, swaying slightly. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “For walking me.”
Sophia just looks at her. “You’re not going to remember me.”
“Yeah,” Megan sighs. “You said.”
Sophia takes her in for a moment: the smudge of mascara under her eye, the drunken curve of her smile, the smell of cheap vodka on her breath.
“Still,” Sophia murmurs, “I would like to say goodbye properly.”
Sophia steps closer. She smells like rain and honey.
Sophia reaches up, her palm warm against Megan’s cheek. “You are kind,” she says softly. “And clumsy. And very loud. And the world is better for it.”
Then she leans in and presses her lips to Megan’s forehead. The touch is gentle, but it burns. It isn’t painful. Not quite. It is something far beyond that.
When Sophia pulls back, her eyes are shining pure gold, yet she looks the most human she has all night.
A tear slips down Megan’s cheek before she can stop it. Sophia brushes it away with her thumb.
“I don’t want to forget you,” Megan confesses, voice cracking.
Sophia smiles sadly, her wings drooping slightly, “I know.”
Megan’s breath hitches. “Then don’t let me.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Then make it,” Megan says, desperate, slurring a little. “You’re — you’re an angel. You can do anything.”
Sophia’s gaze flickers, “If I could,” she says, almost to herself, “I would have, I swear to you.”
She takes Megan’s trembling hands and lifts one to her lips. When she speaks again, her voice trembles.
“I hate when you cry.”
Megan’s sob catches in her throat.
“If only you knew,” Sophia whispers, “how many times I’ve watched you fall, and rise, and laugh, and break—” She exhales, stopping herself. “And yet I keep being sent to guard you. Even though every time you somehow manage to see me, I struggle to let go.”
Her thumb brushes another tear from Megan’s cheek.
“Will I see you again?” Megan asks, breath trembling.
Sophia nods. “That I can promise you.”
Then the air folds inward.
Light bends.
And Sophia’s gone.
Megan stands there, heart hammering, the world rushing back in too fast. The hum of the streetlight. It smells of rain on asphalt despite the ground being dry.
Megan presses her fingertips to her forehead, half-expecting to find it scorched. It’s just skin, warm and unremarkable, but she swears there’s something pulsing underneath.
She shuts her eyes and tries to imagine seeing Sophia’s face. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Or were they gold? She can’t remember. Every time she thinks she’s got it, the image bends or blurs.
“Wait — no,” she whispers. “No, no, no.”
Her chest feels tight.
She tries again. The shape of Sophia’s mouth, the sound of her voice, the shade of her skin in the lamplight — all of it receding.
“Don’t,” Megan says. Her voice breaks. “Don’t go. I’m trying to remember.”
But the more she tries, the faster the memory slips away.
Megan goes inside because there’s nothing else to do. Everything feels too quiet. She drops her bag, climbs into bed without undressing. Her sheets are cold, real. She presses her palms over her eyes and sees the silhouette of wings.
The ache in her chest spreads until it’s everywhere.
Sophia. Sophia. Sophia.
Megan’s head is pounding when she wakes up. Her mouth still tastes like vodka. She groans and rolls over, still in her clothes from last night.
Last night was a blur. She remembers a streetlamp and someone beautiful. Wings, maybe? No, that can’t be right. Her forehead feels warm when she brings up a hand to try and rub away her headache.
She sits up slowly and that’s when she sees it.
There, on the floor, right in the center of her room is a feather. It’s white and pristine and curled up. The light streaming in between her curtains catches it just right so that it shimmers.
Megan’s hand shakes as she reaches for it.
The moment her finger touches it, it dissolves, like pixie dust in old Disney movies. Like it was never there at all. She wonders if she is dreaming.
Eventually, she stands. Takes an Advil. Orders a bagel. When Lara texts her asking what happened last night, Megan types lol idk i blacked and hits send. She doesn’t tell her about the feather.
Later, when she opens her notes app to write down her groceries, she sees she had typed something at 3 a.m.
Just one word in all caps: SOPHIA.
She stares at it, frowning. Must’ve been someone she met at the club, she figures. She laughs under her breath, a little embarrassed, and deletes it without thinking.
And for a while, that’s the last she thinks of that night.
But sometimes, Megan dreams of wings. Sometimes she wakes with her forehead warm. Sometimes, walking home from the bar, she looks to see if someone is standing under the streetlamps.
She’s not sure why she starts praying again.
But she does anyway.