Chapter Text
It was an almost ordinary night for Bonnie, if not for the inexplicable impulse that led her to the bar door. She never went to bars. She hated loud music, the crowd of strangers, the pressure to have fun. On those very few times she had appeared in one, she was dragged by her friends, who used the same old argument: "You need to relax a little, Bonnie!".
Relax from what? Her life was quiet, almost monotonous. Too peaceful, perhaps.
The memory of her first time in a bar surfaced, vivid and bitter. Nineteen years old, her heart in tatters over a breakup that, to the rest of the world, had been nothing. A one-week relationship. For her, however, it was the end of an entire future she had already built in her imagination: the marriage, the house, a whole lifetime of companionship. The alcohol, as promised, helped her forget, but only that night. The next day brought the pain back.
That was five years ago. Bonnie swore she was over it. She was fine. She was in control. She had promised herself she wouldn't fall in love again, unless it was with someone who dreamed at the same fast and intense pace as she did.
And yet, there she was, crossing the establishment's door alone. The music hit her like a punch to the eardrums, and the flickering lights made her blink, disoriented. Do people come here to go deaf and blind?, she pondered, while heading to the counter, her logical refuge in an illogical place.
She ordered a weak drink. As she waited, her eyes scanned the crowd, until they landed on a woman and, suddenly, everything around her seemed to blur.
She was different. She had a glow of her own, a magnetic serenity that set her apart from the surrounding chaos. Her short hair framed a face that Bonnie couldn't decipher, but that held her captive. And the eyes... even from a distance, they had a special shine, a depth that made the world slow down.
Bonnie only realized she was staring when the bartender's voice called her, impatient.
— Miss?
She startled.
— Ah... Sorry.
She grabbed the glass and, in an act of pure nervousness, brought it to her lips and emptied it in one go. The liquid went down like lava down her throat. What an idiot, she thought, embarrassed. Now she'll think I'm a desperate stalker.
As she turned back to the counter, ordering another drink as if it were a lifeline, her heart skipped a beat. The woman was closer, sitting just a few stools away. And her eyes, those bright eyes, were fixed on her, without hesitation.
Bonnie felt a heat rise from her neck to her cheeks. She averted her gaze, fixing it on some random point on the wall, on the ceiling, anywhere but that face.
It was then that she felt a soft presence by her side. A subtle perfume, a displacement of air. She turned.
It was her. Standing, next to her, looking at Bonnie with a quiet curiosity.
Bonnie jumped back, surprised. How had she gotten there so fast, so silently?
Without the courage to hold the gaze, Bonnie lowered her eyes to her own glass, her hands trembling. The silence between them was electric, heavy. She could no longer breathe properly in there.
Grabbing the glass like a lifebuoy, she turned around and walked with firm steps towards the outdoor area, her tight chest desperately seeking air.
The night air caressed Bonnie's face like a blessing. She leaned heavily on the cold iron railing, as if she needed that solid contact to anchor herself to reality. Inside her lungs, her breath found its rhythm again, deep and clean, washing away the smell of alcohol that permeated the bar. She raised her eyes to the sky, a mantle of black velvet so rare in the city, and the stars twinkled like solitary diamonds. For a moment, everything was peace.
Then, the bar door opened with a soft noise of tired hinges.
Bonnie didn't need to turn around. She felt on the nape of her neck, in every hair that stood on end, who it was. The perfume arrived before the presence, subtle notes of vanilla.
She heard the light footsteps approaching, stopping at a careful, respectful distance. Not an invasion, but a questioning. A request for permission.
Bonnie closed her eyes for a second, her heart beating hard against her ribs. The escape had been useless. And, deep down, a part of her savored a sweet triumph. She turned slowly, as if moving under water.
The woman was there, illuminated by the amber light leaking from the bar window. Her eyes, now that Bonnie saw them up close, were dark brown, almost the color of wet earth after rain, but with a depth that seemed to hold entire stories. There was a serenity in them, an infinite patience, that made Bonnie's internal agitation seem somewhat ridiculous.
— Also escaping the heat? — Her voice was soft, but with a clarity that cut through the distant noise of the music.
Bonnie felt the words form in her throat, dry and awkward. She forced them out, trying to sound more casual than she felt.
— Escaping... would be a strong word. — She shrugged, a small, nervous gesture. — Maybe I just came looking for a little silence.
The woman's lips curved at one corner. It wasn't a full smile, but a promise of one. An invitation. Her eyes scanned Bonnie's face, and Bonnie felt the heat rise up her neck.
— Can I steal a bit of that silence with you? — She asked, and her voice carried a hint of humor, as if they were sharing a secret joke.
And, to her own astonishment, Bonnie found herself nodding. A single, almost imperceptible nod of her head. The rational part of her brain screamed in alarm, reminding her of her promises, of her perfectly tranquil and controlled life. But the other part, the part that had led her to that bar without an apparent reason, whispered louder.
It was the woman who broke the silence, her voice a soft melody that blended perfectly with the night. She didn't look at Bonnie, keeping her eyes fixed on the firmament, as if sharing a secret with the constellations.
— It's much better out here — she said, and Bonnie could hear the smile in her voice. — In there it seems like everyone is competing to see who can shout the loudest or blink the fastest.
It was so exactly what Bonnie had felt, put into such perfect words, that a laugh escaped her lips, not the nervous laugh from before, but a genuine, round, and surprised laugh that echoed in the quiet air. The sound seemed to release something inside her, a knot of tension that came undone, leaving behind only a sweet relaxation.
— That's exactly it! — Bonnie agreed, her own gaze still fixed on the stars, but now seeing them through a new veil of relief. — I was feeling like a stranger on another planet.
It was then that the woman turned. Bonnie felt the movement more than she saw it, a shift of energy in the space between them. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bonnie turned her head to meet her. And her eyes were already on her, studying her with a soft intensity that made Bonnie's breath fail for a second.
— I saw you — the woman said, her voice a little lower now, almost a secret. — In there. While everyone was blinking and shouting... you seemed... the most real person in the place.
The declaration hit Bonnie with a physical force. She felt the blush rise from her chest, scalding her neck and her cheeks, an involuntary and totally revealing reaction. She averted her gaze, fixing it on the iron railing, focusing on a flake of peeling paint. The vulnerability of that admission, the naked truth in it, was both terrifying and electrifying.
— I... — Bonnie's voice came out as a hoarse whisper. She swallowed dryly and tried again. — I... saw you too. That's why I practically dropped my glass — she risked a quick glance upward, a shy, crooked smile playing on her lips. — It was kind of embarrassing.
Instead of any response of pity or reciprocated embarrassment, the woman simply laughed. It was a clear and honest sound, and it didn't mock Bonnie, but celebrated the moment.
— It was adorable — she said, and Bonnie could see the sincerity dancing in her eyes.
And then, something inside Bonnie calmed down. The embarrassment dissipated, replaced by a growing warmth, a spark of something she didn't dare name, but that resembled hope a lot.
Bonnie, feeling braver under the attentive gaze of those brown eyes, asked the question that had been burning her tongue since she had seen her inside the bar.
— So, what brings you to a bar on a weekday? — Bonnie asked, her tone light, curious. — Was it also one of those inexplicable impulses?
The woman made a thoughtful expression, bringing a finger to her chin in an exaggerated gesture, as if she were considering a deep existential question.
— Hmm, more or less — she replied, a playful glint in her eyes. — Let's say it was a strategic escape. I work in illustration. I spent the whole day locked in my studio, which is more like a burrow of paper and ink, fighting with a character who flatly refused to come to life the right way. — She gestured with her hands, shaping an invisible form in the air. — You know when the image in your head is perfect, but your hand seems to have a will of its own and decides to create a monster? So. I thought a shock of reality... or, let's be honest, a complete lack of it... would help reset my mind.
Bonnie's eyes lit up instantly, a pure reflection of identification. It was as if someone had finally translated a feeling she had carried for years.
— Really? — she exclaimed, leaning slightly forward, as if afraid to miss a single syllable. — I'm an architect. I spend my days locked in meeting rooms or in front of a pile of blueprints, fighting with lines, angles, and perspectives that stubbornly refuse to fit together. It's like trying to put together a puzzle where all the pieces are from different pictures.
— That's it! — the woman exclaimed, her face opening into a wide, genuine smile. She clapped her hands lightly, a soft snap in the night air. — It's exactly the same feeling! That stubborn monster that inhabits the space between the idea and the execution. It's... agonizing and addictive at the same time.
— Exactly! — Bonnie's voice came out laden with a deep, almost moving relief. She shook her head, amazed. — You're the first person who understands that without me needing to draw, explain, or apologize for seeming dramatic. Everyone else thinks it's just... do it. And that's it.
— Because for them, it probably is — the woman completed, her voice softening in complicity. — But for us... it's like giving a piece of our soul and hoping the world sees the same beauty we see.
Bonnie was silent for a moment, absorbing those words. They echoed inside her like a fundamental truth she had always known but never heard expressed aloud. That woman wasn't just beautiful and intriguing; she was a mirror. Someone who inhabited the same parallel universe of creation and doubt. The chance that had brought them together that night was starting to seem less like luck and more like a kind of gentle destiny.
— So this stubborn character — Bonnie resumed, interest painted on her face — is he a hero or a villain?
The woman laughed, a sound that now sounded familiar and precious to Bonnie.
— Ah, at the moment, he's definitely the villain of my story. But who knows? After tonight, maybe I'll have the inspiration to redeem him.
The air between them had changed again, becoming warmer, closer. The distance that once separated them at the railing had evaporated naturally, and now their arms almost touched when one of them moved. The night seemed to have enveloped them in a private bubble, where only those two existed.
The woman broke the silence that had settled comfortably after the conversation about their professions. Her tone was casual, but there was a spark of genuine curiosity in her brown eyes.
— Speaking of not needing to explain... — she began, an easy smile on her lips. — I think we've already talked about professions and social phobias... — She made a dramatic pause, raising her eyebrows. — But, somehow, I still don't know your name.
Bonnie blinked, as if pulled from a dream. The question was so simple, so fundamental, and yet it felt like a revelation. She laughed, a soft sound of surprise.
— Bonnie — she said, and her own name sounded strange in her mouth, as if she were hearing it for the first time. — My name is Bonnie.
The woman repeated the name softly, testing its syllables.
— Bonnie... — she whispered, and the name seemed to come to life, becoming something sweeter and softer as it was shaped by her voice. She tilted her head, studying Bonnie's face as if comparing it to the sound. — It suits you.
Bonnie felt a pleasant warmth spread through her chest. The simplicity of the compliment, the way it was delivered, seemed to mean more than any flourish could.
— I'm Emi — the woman finally offered, her smile widening.
— Emi... — Bonnie repeated, following her example, letting the short, sweet name fill the space between them. She felt the shape of the letters on her tongue, a perfect combination of softness and strength. — It suits you too.
And in that moment, with the exchange of those names, something fundamental clicked into place. They were no longer two strangers in a bar; they were Bonnie and Emi. And the world, illuminated only by the stars and the faint light leaking from inside the bar, seemed to hold a promise that neither of them dared to name, but that both felt pulsing in the night air.
[...]
The moon, now a silvery, sovereign disc in the starry dome, witnessed the scene below. Hours had dissolved like sugar in coffee, without either of them noticing the passage of time. The bar's outdoor area was practically deserted, and they had migrated to a distant wooden bench, partially hidden by the shadow of an ancient tree. Sitting facing each other, their knees almost touching, they were completely absorbed in the private universe they had created, a universe where every word was a thread weaving an invisible web around them.
Emi gestured as she spoke, her fingers drawing shapes in the air to illustrate a story. A stray strand of hair swayed near her face, and Bonnie felt an almost uncontrollable desire to reach out and smooth it back behind her ear.
— ...and that's when I realized there's no use forcing it — she concluded, with a theatrical sigh that ended in a smile. — Inspiration is like a stubborn cat. She comes when she wants, rubs against your legs, demands affection at the most inconvenient moment, and disappears for days without a trace. It's no use calling her; she pretends not to hear.
Bonnie laughed, the clear sound echoing softly in the quiet of the night. Her face was relaxed, illuminated by a genuine animation she rarely allowed others to see. There was a different warmth in this laugh, a deeper tone that came from the place where she kept her most precious certainties.
— Yes! — she exclaimed, leaning forward, her eyes shining. The movement made her knee finally touch Emi's, and both felt a small electric shock at the contact, but neither moved away. — And it's exactly the same for me! Sometimes the solution for a project, that missing angle, comes when I'm washing dishes, soaping a plate, with my mind completely empty. Or in the shower, when I can't write anything down and I'm desperate not to forget. Never when I'm in front of the drafting board, pressuring myself to have the idea.
Emi laughed, a melodious sound that seemed to fit perfectly with the night. It was a laugh Bonnie already loved to hear, and that now caused a delicious flutter in her stomach. And, watching Emi's face illuminated by that expression of amusement, something in Bonnie grew quiet. The euphoria gave way to a deep serenity, and the smile gradually faded from her lips, replaced by a thoughtful and slightly vulnerable expression.
— It's strange — Bonnie said, her voice lower, almost a confessional whisper.
Emi noticed the change in tone immediately. Her own smile softened, becoming curiosity. She also felt something different in the air, a change in the atmospheric pressure between them, as if the universe were holding its breath.
— How so? — she asked, softly, her gaze fixed on Bonnie as if trying to decipher a precious code.
Bonnie lowered her gaze for a moment, focusing on her own hands intertwined in her lap. When she raised her eyes again, there was a raw frankness in them that made Emi's heart give a little jump and then accelerate, beating hard against her ribs like a tribal drum.
— To talk so much — Bonnie confessed, her voice laden with shyness and wonder. — To open up so easily... about these things I keep even from myself. About my frustrations, my processes... — She paused, searching for the right words, feeling a strange tingling in her fingertips. — I'm not like this. Normally, it takes me months to trust, to let little pieces of me out. But with you... it's as if I've known you for years, Emi. As if I'd already told you all this in another life, and was just remembering.
The silence that followed was not awkward, but charged with meaning. Emi did not seem surprised. Her smile became pure tenderness, her brown eyes softened, reflecting the moonlight and a deep understanding.
— I know — she replied, her voice was a comfort, a recognition. A shiver ran down her spine as her words came out, so laden with truth it almost hurt. — I feel the same. From the moment I saw you in there, in the middle of all that chaos, seeming like the only real person... and then you dropped that glass — she added, with a playful glint in her eyes, alleviating the intensity of the moment without minimizing it. Her pulse throbbed where it rested on her leg, a fast, steady beat that seemed to shout what her voice still did not dare. — I felt as if... I had finally found a piece I didn't even know was missing.
Bonnie felt a tightness in her chest, a wave of emotion so strong it almost made her tear up. It wasn't sadness. It was relief. It was the confirmation that this overwhelming connection was not a unilateral delusion. A warmth started at the base of her spine and spread throughout her body, as if someone had lit an internal fire she didn't even know she possessed.
— That's it — whispered Bonnie, her gaze locked on Emi's. — The missing piece.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The distant noise of the city had completely disappeared. There was only the whisper of the breeze in the leaves, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the tiny space between their knees, which suddenly seemed an insurmountable distance and, at the same time, insignificant. The world had shrunk to that bench, to that piece of starry sky above them, and to the simple and overwhelming truth hovering in the air: something extraordinary had begun, and neither of them would be the same after that night.
-
The dry click of the lock being turned echoed like a gunshot in the quiet of the night. The bar's amber lights, which had bathed their faces in a warm intimacy, went out at once, plunging the facade into a bluish gloom, broken only by the pale glow of the moon. The employee, a tired shadow, didn't even look back as he walked away, disappearing around the corner. The magic was broken, abruptly and brutally.
Reality descended upon them with the weight of a wet blanket. Bonnie and Emi rose from the bench in a slow, synchronized movement, the reluctance visible in every line of their bodies. The air that was once warm and promising now felt cold against the skin.
Bonnie pulled back her sleeve and looked at her watch. Her eyes widened.
— Wow — she whispered, her voice hoarse from surprise and hours of conversation. — It's 3 a.m. already...
The declaration hung in the air, a testament to the time that had slipped through their fingers. Emi didn't need to check. She just stared at the closed bar door, her face a picture of pure desolation.
— The bar is closing — she said, and the words sounded like an epitaph, a headstone for the night that didn't want to die.
A heavy, icy silence fell over them, very different from the comfortable silences they had shared before. It was a silence laden with ending, with farewell. Without words, they began to walk towards the main sidewalk, their steps slow and dragging on the asphalt. The city, now asleep, seemed an empty and hostile setting.
They stopped at the edge of the curb, under the ghostly glow of a streetlight. The world was strangely silent. Bonnie twisted the end of her coat between her fingers, wringing the fabric into a knot of anxiety. She felt the words forming in her throat, a whirlwind of emotions that needed to be released before it was too late.
— So... — she began, her voice trembling, almost failing. She forced herself to look up and meet Emi's eyes. — It was... the most incredible night I've had in... — she choked up, searching for a measure of time that did justice to what she felt. — Maybe forever.
Bonnie's voice was laden with a vulnerability so raw it made Emi's heart ache. A sad and tender smile curved Emi's lips, but her brown eyes, normally so vivid, were dull, flooded with a deep melancholy.
— Me too, Bonnie — she replied, and every word was a heavy burden. — It was perfect.
And then they stood still. The space between them, which was once an energetic field of discoveries and intimacy, was now an abyss about to open. Their arms hung at their sides, and the tips of their fingers were so, so close. A minimal movement, a simple slide of centimeters, and their hands would touch. The tension in the air was so palpable that Bonnie felt she could reach out and mold it with her hands.
Inside Bonnie's mind, a scream echoed. "Ask for her number! Ask for her Instagram! Anything! Don't let her go away!" She could see the same desperation reflected in Emi's eyes, the same internal war between the desire to cling to that connection and the deep fear of spoiling the purity of that night with the harshness of reality.
Emi took a deep breath, a sigh that seemed to hurt. When she spoke, her voice was a breath, soft and resigned, carrying a fragile hope that tried to disguise the pain of the farewell.
— Until... one of these days?
The words were not a question, but a prayer. A wish cast to the universe, a blind faith in chance. Bonnie felt her own heart contract with a physical pain. She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a nod.
— Until one of these days, Emi.
Their eyes met for the last time, and one last smile, small and sad, was exchanged. It was a smile that carried the weight of all the unspoken words, of all the touches not given, of all the possibilities that now hung in limbo. Then, in a movement that seemed to require superhuman strength, Bonnie turned away.
Every step she took on the cold sidewalk was agony. She didn't dare look back, fearing that if she did, her legs would abandon her and make her run back. She heard Emi's footsteps echoing in the opposite direction, each one sounding like a nail in the night's coffin. The distance between them increased, and with it, a feeling of emptiness so profound that Bonnie felt she could fall into it.
The night, once young and full of promises, was now dead. And all that remained was the echo of an unanswered question hanging in the cold dawn air: one of these days... will it come?
[…]
A stubborn ray of sun overcame the resistance of the curtains, drawing a golden, dusty stripe across the room. It pierced Bonnie's eyelids, pulling her slowly from a restless sleep into a reality that felt strange and faded. She opened her eyes, heavy and gritty, and was nostalgically greeted by the softness of the pillow.
For a brief and cruel instant, as she blinked against the light, the world smelled of vanilla. The perfume was so vivid, so real, that her heart leapt with hope. She almost expected to hear a melodious laugh, low and close.
But then the moment passed. The aroma dissolved into the air, revealing itself to be nothing more than a ghost, a stubborn memory of a night that had already ended. Her eyes focused on the pillow beside her. Empty. Smooth. An unexplored territory that, in her mind, still bore the imprint of a head with ebony hair.
A groan escaped her lips, a hoarse, muffled sound that she buried deep into the cotton. It was a sound of pure frustration, half ecstasy from reliving every moment, every smile, every almost-touch, and half tearing agony for having let it go. Her hands clenched the pillowcase fabric, her knuckles white.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, but she saw no plaster. She saw dark brown eyes under the streetlight, full of resigned sadness. She saw her own fingers, so close to hers on the sidewalk, frozen by indecision.
The question echoed in her mind, not as a thought, but as a lament. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could hide from it, but the words forced their way out, a rough, broken whisper meant only for the pillow and the ghosts of her own naivety.
— Why didn't I ask for her number?
She swallowed dryly, her throat tight.
— Why, Bonnie?
The last word was a breath of despair. The morning had arrived, bringing with it the harsh and relentless light of day, and the only thing left of the most perfect night of her life was an unanswered question and a void that the empty pillow beside her could not fill.
-
The sharp whistle of the kettle cut through the silence of Emi's apartment, a sound so strident and mundane it seemed like a profanation. She was standing in front of the stove, motionless as a statue, holding an empty mug with both hands. The steam from the boiling water rose in spirals, lightly fogging the window in front of her, but her gaze was fixed on some distant point beyond the glass, without really seeing the buildings or the gray morning sky.
Her fingers absently traced the rim of the mug, a mechanical and repetitive gesture. In her mind, there was no traffic noise or the kettle's hiss. There was only the echo of a clear laugh, the sound of her own voice telling a story and being interrupted by a witty comment, the confidential whisper they had shared under the stars. She relived every micro-expression on Bonnie's face, the way her eyes lit up when she got excited about something, the shadow of her eyelashes casting on her cheeks when she looked down, shy.
A small, inevitable smile appeared on her lips, a reflection of what she had felt hours before. But it was a sad smile, laden with a sweet melancholy that weighed down its corners. It was the smile of someone who guards a treasure and knows they may never see it again.
The kettle's whistle became more urgent, almost a scream. The sound pulled her back to her cold kitchen, to the empty mug in her hands, to the overwhelming reality of a common morning after an extraordinary night. She closed her eyes for a second, as if she could cling to the memory for one more instant.
When she opened them, her gaze lost itself again in the fog of the window, and a single name escaped her lips in a whisper so soft it was almost lost in the steam of the tea that was never made.
— Bonnie...
The name hung in the air, a spell without magic, a prayer without an answer. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, she finally moved, turning off the stove. The silence that followed the whistle was even deeper and emptier than before.
-
Emi pushed the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. The morning air was fresh, almost cold, and made her arms prickle. She wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, a small consolation against the light breeze and the emptiness she felt inside.
Her eyes scanned the urban landscape stretching out below. The city was a vast labyrinth of concrete, glass, and infinite possibilities. Roofs blended with squares, streets snaked between buildings, and the river cut through the scenery like a silver ribbon in the distance. It was a living, pulsating organism, housing thousands of souls. And somewhere, in that tangle of paths, was she.
Her gaze, laden with a quiet and painful hope, scanned the streets, the corners, the bus stops. Every person moving, tiny and distant, was a remote possibility. Every shadow that turned could be... no, it wasn't. Not yet.
She raised the mug to her lips, but didn't drink. The gesture was more a reflex, an anchor in the present, while her mind wandered freely into the future. The expression on her face was a complex mixture of yearning and resignation. The previous night had planted a seed of possibility, but the morning had brought the harsh reality of distance and anonymity.
Then, her lips moved, forming the words in an almost imperceptible whisper, stolen by the breeze. It was not speech to be heard, but a promise cast to the wind, a wish sent out to the universe.
"Wherever you are... I hope to find you again. The world is too big for such a small chance... but I still hope."