Her head throbbed like a drum, her mouth tasted like a sandpaper factory, and the faint echo of regret from the night before clung to her like a bad hangover. She squinted at her phone screen, which was gleaming painfully bright. A quick glance revealed the offending notifications:

Missed Call: Nakamura Yuri

Unknown Number: Incoming

Unknown Number: Outgoing

Sara froze, her stomach lurching.

“Unknown number...?” she muttered, blinking rapidly. Her brain tried to piece together the hazy remnants of last night. She sat up so fast that the room spun. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no...!” she squeaked in horror, pressing her palms to her flushed cheeks as embarrassment surged through her like a tidal wave. The wrong number. The drunken rant. The stranger on the line.

“Why am I like this?” she groaned, letting herself collapse back into her pillows with a dramatic sigh.

She couldn’t stop replaying it in her mind: the izakaya, the soft clink of glasses, her flushed cheeks from too many cocktails and too much self-pity and vindictiveness after the breakup. Her ex had accused her of being “extra” and “materialistic” — like those were bad things! Yesterday's memories flooded over her throbbing mind and she struggled to piece together the majority of the embarrassing events that had taken place.

The bar had been quiet, save for a few murmured conversations and the rhythmic clink of ice in glasses. Sara, tipsy and thoroughly fed up with her own heartbreak, had called Yuri. Or, so she thought.

“Moshi moshi,” a deep voice answered, smooth and steady—completely different from Yuri’s usual chirpy greeting.

“YURI!” Sara had slurred loudly enough to make the bartender pause mid-pour. “Do you know what that jerk said to me? He said I’m materialistic! Can you believe that?”

The voice on the other end had paused for a long beat before replying, “I... don’t think I’m Yuri.”

Sara blinked, processing the unexpected response. “Wait. Who are you?”

The voice, tinged with amusement, replied, “Just a landlord. Daichi.”

“Well, Daichi,” Sara had snapped without a second thought, “you’ve just been promoted to my temporary therapist. Lucky you!”

___

Now, lying in her bed, the weight of yesterday’s embarrassment pressed down on her like a boulder. Sara groaned and kicked the blanket off in frustration, her legs tangled in the sheets as she sat up. Her reflection in the mirror across the room only made things worse—disheveled hair, smudged mascara, and eyes that screamed: “I made a huge mistake.”

“Kuso…” she muttered under her breath, throwing her hands up in defeat. Her voice was the perfect combination of annoyance and self-loathing. “Why do I do this to myself?”

With a heavy sigh, she grabbed her phone again, hoping the damage wasn’t too bad. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through the notifications, still in disbelief. The one from the unknown number made her pause. It was from him. Daichi.

Unknown Number: “Good morning. I trust your hangover isn’t too terrible.”

Sara’s stomach dropped. She couldn’t even begin to process the fact that he had texted her. Why did he text me?

She hovered over her phone screen, fingers twitching as she debated her next move. Should she ignore it? Should she apologize? Play it cool? She groaned again, typing and deleting multiple drafts before finally settling on a very casual reply:

Sara: “I’ve had worse. Thanks for...listening last night.”

Before she could overthink it, the phone buzzed with a reply.

Unknown Number: “It was...entertaining. Shall we call it a mutually beneficial venting session?”

Sara blinked, her lips curving into a small, surprised smile. Mutually beneficial venting session? She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or just amused, but she couldn’t deny the sudden warmth bubbling up in her chest. His message was... surprisingly comforting, despite the awkwardness.

Just as she was about to reply, her phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: “Would it be presumptuous to ask if I can call again?”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Isamu leaned back in his luxurious office chair, staring out at the vast Tokyo skyline. The penthouse was bathed in the bright sunshine, the towering buildings stretching endlessly into the horizon. It was a view he had seen countless times before, but today, it felt different—almost distant and magical, as if his mind was elsewhere.

The penthouse was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of his fingers tapping lightly on his phone’s screen. He hadn’t expected to actually enjoy his late-night conversation with Sara—or even want to keep talking to her. And yet, here he was, checking his messages more often than he cared to admit.

It was ridiculous, really. He had spent years cultivating an existence defined by discipline, control, and efficiency. His world revolved around sharp suits, calculated negotiations, and the ruthless precision of the corporate battlefield. There was little room for distractions, and yet Sara—messy, unpredictable, and utterly unfiltered—had somehow slipped through the cracks of his carefully structured life.

Her drunken rant should have been nothing more than a momentary amusement, a brief detour from the monotony of his usual conversations. But there was something about the raw honesty in her words that clung to him.

Unlike the meticulously crafted responses he was used to—words tailored for deals, manipulation, or empty formalities—Sara spoke with a reckless kind of sincerity. It was loud. Unpolished. And strangely refreshing.

She had no agenda, no hidden motives. Just pure, unfiltered thoughts spilling out in a way that was both amusing and—against all logic—disarming. He should have dismissed it as mere entertainment, but instead, he found himself wanting to hear more.

His brows furrowed slightly as he exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. This was unlike him. He didn’t get attached to fleeting distractions. He didn’t wait for messages. He certainly didn’t let strangers occupy his mind so easily.

His thumb hovered over his phone screen. He had no reason to reply. Not really. And yet…

He tapped the keyboard, hesitating for a fraction of a second before pressing send.

"It was... entertaining. Shall we call it a mutually beneficial venting session?"

A soft knock at the door broke his trance.

"Sir?" His assistant's voice was polite, hesitant, as if sensing that his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Fujin-sama, the board meeting begins in ten minutes.”

Isamu snapped out of his reverie, slipping the phone into his pocket as he stood. He offered a congenital smile. 

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he said, his eyes still lingering on the phone. He had to admit, he was curious about Sara.

Isamu straightened, his expression smoothing into its usual impassive mask.

“Even the smallest pebble can create ripples in a pond,” he murmured under his breath as he adjusted his tie.

Whatever this was—whatever strange pull Sara had on him—it was temporary. A passing curiosity. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Sara, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on her bed, staring blankly at her phone screen. The soft hum of her space heater filled the silence of her tiny apartment. A designer at the prestigious Valerie Design Co., she was still finding her footing in the cutthroat world of fashion. Her days were spent stitching together fabric swatches and surviving on coffee, her nights often a mix of dreams and self-doubt.

The last message from Daichi enabled a smile to bloom on her pretty face.

She hadn’t thought much about last night beyond the mortifying realization that she had spilled half her frustrations to a stranger. A stranger who, by all accounts, had no reason to humor her. And yet, here he was. Responding. Continuing the conversation. Even going as far to maintain the unexpected relationship.

Warmth bloomed in her chest, soft and unexpected. It wasn’t much—just a few words, a simple message—but in a life filled with fleeting interactions and surface-level conversations, it felt like something. Like the beginning of something.

Maybe, in this vast, indifferent city, she had found a new stranger—a friend. A genuine friend.