The tangled web of social gatherings! Ora, the mastermind, orchestrating a soirée like a conductor leading a symphony. And there you were, caught in the whirlwind of rich friends and frustrated married women—like a character in a delightful comedy of errors.

Ora’s living room transformed into a microcosm of society: the glitterati sipping champagne, the frustrated ones eyeing their spouses, and you—the newlywed with a secret. Your friends, curious as cats, pounced on the question: “Tell us about Kai!”

And there you stood, Sia, the grand improviser. Kai’s profession? A mystery wrapped in an enigma, sprinkled with a dash of “I have no clue.” You spun tales—random answers like a roulette wheel. Perhaps you told them Kai was a professional trapeze artist or a part-time unicorn whisperer. Who knows? The truth remained elusive.

Sia woke up in Ora’s apartment, her head pounding like a construction crew had set up shop inside her skull. The room spun, and she wondered if she’d accidentally joined a centrifuge experiment. Ora, ever the enabler, greeted her with a compliment:

“Sia, you look damn sexy. Your new haircut—it’s quite short—you kind of look like Kristen Stewart.”

Sia squinted at the mirror. Short hair? She hadn’t rocked that look since her rebellious teenage years. But apparently, last night’s drunken escapade had led to a stylistic metamorphosis. Ora, the accomplice, shrugged off responsibility:

“You went crazy and decided to get a haircut just to look like Kristen Stewart.”

Sia's inner monologue: Why didn’t Ora stop me? Why didn’t I stop myself?

Back at her place, twilight settling in, Kai’s mom—still chattering like a caffeinated parrot—greeted her. “Oh, look at you, a new haircut. You look beautiful.”

Sia’s sarcasm radar pinged. Was this genuine or a masterclass in passive-aggression?

“Kai, look,” Kai's mom announced, as if unveiling a rare artifact. Kai, the man of few words, lived up to his reputation: “Oh.”

Sia’s mental eye-roll: Oh, indeed. The tastelessness of “Oh” has reached new heights.

“Sia, I am leaving tonight; I want you both to attend the wedding,” Kai’s mom declared, her suitcase zipping shut. The air seemed to lighten—the promise of solitude on the horizon.

“Mom, you could stay here a little longer,” Sia murmured, her voice barely audible. But Kai’s mom was resolute, like a migratory bird with a precise departure date.

And then, blessedly, she left. The door clicked shut, and Sia exhaled. The apartment felt larger, the walls less judgmental. She half-expected the furniture to throw a party in celebration.

Kai, ever enigmatic, locked the door and settled on the couch. His cough echoed through the room—a signal, perhaps, that this conversation would be neither mundane nor fleeting.

“Can we speak…” he began.