Zola looked into Mike's puppy-dog eyes. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were glistening, damp with something unsaid—perhaps it was the moonlight tonight that was too beautiful, or perhaps the atmosphere in the bar was simply too ambiguous. Her heart felt like a startled deer, crashing wildly inside her chest—thump thump thump—leaving her shaken and at a loss. So many emotions surged within her. She wanted to open her mouth and say yes, yet she hesitated.
Her mind flickered through countless other people's stories: the tangled loves and hatreds of uncles and aunts she had heard about as a child, the hormone-fueled pushing and pulling she had witnessed in high school as a mere onlooker, eating melon seeds on the sidelines.
With a sharp crack, a glass shattered somewhere, smashing into pieces on the floor. The sound jolted Zola awake, pulling her out of her chaotic thoughts. She became aware of the noisy, disordered scene around her. Men and women sang along with the live singer in the bar, and the entire atmosphere was drenched in intimacy. From where Zola stood, she could even see a man's hand already sliding along his companion's exposed back, inching up her spine, slowly climbing toward her shoulder.
Zola shivered at the sight. She wanted to run. She didn't dare meet Mike's expectant gaze. Lowering her eyes, she said to him, "I'm sorry. Please give me a little time to think." Even after turning her face away, she could still see, out of the corner of her eye, Mike's expression dimming little by little. Her heart hollowed out, yet she clenched her teeth, hardened her resolve, and said goodbye.
As she packed up and turned to leave, she didn't dare look into Mike's eyes. Flustered and clumsy, she gathered her things, stumbling as she made her way out of the bar. She didn't turn back—either there was no time, or she was simply too afraid. She didn't see that after she left, a young man who had been sitting quietly in the corner stood up and walked over to Mike's table. He slung an arm around the dispirited Mike, whose head hung low, and even went to buy him two beers. If Zola had stayed and looked more closely, she might have recognized him as Mike's friend—the one she had met before, at that party.
While Zola was riding the heart's roller coaster, rising and plunging without pause, Emily's night was no easier. After she said goodbye to Zola, a man who had long been waiting swooped in like a fly drawn to the smell of rotten eggs, buzzing eagerly around what he desired, circling again and again. Emily wanted to frown, but she had no choice; she could only plaster on a smile and deal with him. Feeling his pig-trotter-like hands roaming over her carefully manicured fingers—hands she had spent a fortune maintaining and decorating with the latest nail art—made her stomach churn. Still, she maintained her elegance on the surface, politely excused herself, and when she signaled for the waiter to pay, she was told the bill had already been settled by the gentleman.
Emily was a little surprised, but she still offered the man a smile. His body looked as though it could be squeezed for dozens of pounds of grease; his belly jutted out like he was six months pregnant, and his receding hairline had retreated so far back it could barely hold half the battlefield. She tried to leave him courteously. Yet the man seemed incapable of reading the refusal hidden beneath her politeness and followed her relentlessly all the way to the entrance of the Turkish restaurant.
Emily was growing impatient. She had never encountered a man so utterly lacking in tact. Just as she was considering how to get rid of him, the man spoke.
"Marco is finished, you know that? If you're looking for a next option, you can come to me."
As he spoke, he pulled a business card from his pocket and pressed it into Emily's hand, not forgetting to brush against her fingers as he did so.
Suppressing the wave of nausea rising within her, Emily bade him farewell with a professional smile. She glanced down at the card in her hand—black, with a name and phone number stamped in gold. She had intended to toss it straight into a trash bin, but something stopped her. Against her will, the man's words echoed in her mind: Marco is finished.
Her heart grew unsettled. She picked up her phone and stared again and again at a number saved there, one she almost never called. She didn't know what to do, what to say, or in what capacity—by what right—she could express her concern.
Perhaps her longing had moved God, or some other deity from some other path. Her phone rang. The caller was the very man she had been thinking of.
Marco's voice was as cold as ever, edged with pride and an almost innate sense of nobility. Hearing it, Emily's emotions settled, as they always did, into a calm she herself couldn't quite define—a kind of release. On the line, Marco asked the same routine questions as usual. Only when he heard about someone fainting did he pause briefly.
"If possible, it's better not to let her get involved in matters like this."
Emily couldn't quite describe how that sentence made her feel. Even though it wasn't the first time she had heard it, she still sensed jealousy—the ugly monster—slowly devouring her heart.
"Don't worry," she said. "She's not the type to meddle in other people's business or play detective."
As for Mike, Marco seemed not to have spared him a second thought. After finishing his customary remarks, Emily fell silent. She didn't know how to voice her concern, yet she was afraid of breaking the strange balance between them.
"I've heard some things," she said at last. "It seems you've run into some trouble."
Marco's tone softened slightly. "Just some minor issues. Don't worry too much. The bag you wanted—you can still get it directly from that store. As for the quota bags and the like, I imagine you have plenty. You can give those to her."
Wanting to prolong the conversation, Emily mentioned that Zola had been looking for an internship but hadn't found anything yet. Marco thought for a moment, then said, "Have her apply to the opening at The Calderon Foundation's space on Mount Street, Mayfair. Tell her to submit an application—she'll receive an offer."
Emily acknowledged it quietly, saying only that she understood. After that, the two of them sank into silence once more. Marco broke it with a teasing remark.
"Lily, don't be afraid. I'll always show up, won't I? Just like always."
Hearing this, Emily suddenly felt like crying. She murmured an "mm," then quickly hung up the phone, afraid Marco might hear the faint tremor creeping into her voice.
The night spread across the city like a piece of deep blue velvet, polished again and again. Distant lights rose from the horizon, only to be sliced into fragments by towering buildings—bright, restrained shards of glow. The clouds were thin, the moon half-hidden behind them; its light was broken apart, settling on rooftops and along the edges of streets like a calm, silvery frost. There was wind in the air, though barely noticeable, leaving only brief, indistinct traces on the skin. Occasionally, the sound of a car slid past from afar, quickly swallowed by the night. It was as if the world had been turned down to a lower volume, and all the unspoken emotions lingered quietly beneath the sky.
The next day, when Emily and Zola met again, each of them was carrying unspoken thoughts, though both concealed them well, drawing on that adult talent for composure. Emily made polite conversation and asked how Zola's date had gone. Zola brushed it off vaguely.
In truth, on her way home the night before, Zola had already given careful thought to her relationship with Mike. She felt that Mike was, by all accounts, a very good person to date. Yet there was a faint unease in her heart. She was afraid of forming that kind of intimate bond with someone. For her, she cherished the way Mike treated her so well, but within her there existed a clear boundary. And Mike, it seemed, wanted to step across that line.
Emily's makeup today was, as always, exquisitely refined—refined down to the very tips of her nails. Zola noticed that Emily's nails radiated an overall sense of luxury at the level of haute couture, clearly inspired by fashion show styling, not everyday decoration, but made for "the stage and the spotlight." The main color was a high-gloss mirror black, reminiscent of lacquered and velvet fabrics in evening gowns—cold, sharp, and commanding. The nude-pink base served as a transitional layer, like the lining of a high-end dress, ensuring that the luxury did not appear ostentatious but instead revealed depth and subtlety.
The decorative elements drew heavily from the visual language of runway accessories: irregularly cut crystals, metal studs, starbursts, geometric gems, and colorful enamel accents, as if jewelry had been deconstructed and reassembled, each piece precisely positioned to create visual focal points. Three-dimensional inlays intertwined with flat elements, creating an effect reminiscent of a blend between high-end jewelry and couture garments—bold, yet not chaotic.
The pointed long nail shape reinforced the overall sense of aggression and fashion-forward attitude, like extended lines continuing the stride of a runway model. This entire set was not merely "pretty"; it was a meticulously planned fashion statement—luxurious, avant-garde, and powerful, carrying the kind of confidence and ambition that belongs solely to top-tier backstage styling at Fashion Week.
Zola blinked, and a painting came to mind—Gustav Klimt's The Kiss (1907–1908). She recalled how the man and woman in the painting were enveloped in golden patterns, with the man's geometric shapes appearing rigid and the woman's circles and flowers soft, symbolizing the fusion of masculine and feminine. She always felt that Emily was like the female figure in the painting.
In Zola's mind, she slowly sketched the image of that girl. She tilted her face slightly upward, her eyes gently closed, her lips neither yielding nor resisting, her body folding inward in a posture of self-containment. This was not a moment of dramatic passion but an emotional state of being enveloped and cocooned. Her presence was quiet and soft, yet not fragile. The consciousness of femininity did not expand outward; instead, it was immersed in self-perception, as if at this moment the world consisted solely of her own breath and sensations.
Her dress was composed of numerous circles, flowers, and flowing blocks of color, contrasting with the man's rational, rigid geometric robe. These embellishments were not merely gender symbols but seemed to externalize her inner emotions—sensuality, vitality, nature, and the warmth of desire. She stood barefoot upon a field of flowers, grounding herself to the earth, hinting at her connection to the real world, bodily experience, and primal instincts.
The gold was not there merely to serve the man's embrace; it constructed a safe and private space for her. She was surrounded by golden light yet not engulfed; kissed yet retaining her subjectivity. Her closed eyes were not an act of submission but an active inner choice—she was feeling, not being watched.
She was born to exist amid gold and intricacy, to be cherished, surrounded, and repeatedly affirmed. She did not need to prove anything to the world; the world, in turn, established order around her. Admiration, desire, and longing were merely echoes of her position, not the result of her effort.
As for Zola herself, she felt that she was like Naeemeh Naeemaei's The Moon Falls a Thousand Times. She was like that moon that had fallen a thousand times. Every time it hung high, every time it shone, it was a longing for light, yet it always had to fall alone into the darkness of night. No one could hold her light, and no one could understand her falling; she was simply repeating her cycle of solitude. She longed to be close, yet was destined to remain distant. Her light was gentle, yet could not warm herself. All expectations, all desires, scattered like fragments of a falling moon across the empty night, silent and cold. Some said her existence was worth gazing upon, but they only saw the radiance, not the fragile skeleton that supported it.
While Zola's thoughts were running wild and scattered, Emily was also observing her. She traced Zola's appearance with her eyes. Her double eyelids, her typically East Asian nose—neither very high nor very delicate. Her black hair fell down both sides of her cheeks, showing it was her natural hair, untouched by any chemical alteration. Her whiteness, typical of an Asian, differed from that of white people; it often carried a warm undertone, with her skin showing a faint ivory hue, giving a sense of softness and warmth. Even when extremely pale, it always retained a gentle warmthEmily was actually somewhat picky and disdainful; for her, she could not truly appreciate Zola's beauty. What she liked was her own appearance. She liked the way her skin emitted a warm, wheat-colored glow under the sunlight, as if it had been gently kissed by the summer sun. Every inch of her skin exuded healthy redness, accompanied by soft light and shadow, making the lines of her shoulders, arms, and collarbones clear and natural. Her arms were slender yet strong, her legs long and balanced, her waist slightly cinched, and her curves soft and flowing. And yet, it was precisely someone like Zola who so effortlessly obtained the things she had longed for day and night.
Although Emily felt a hint of disdain, she quickly switched to her usual style. She adopted her familiar "older-sister caregiver" tone and began guiding Zola on how to submit job applications. To avoid arousing Zola's suspicion, she had Zola send applications to roughly twenty galleries and museums, both large and small. Zola obediently followed Emily's instructions and finished submitting all the applications.
Then, Emily took out the basic handbag that Marco had asked her to give to Zola, along with a silk scarf. She patiently showed Zola how to use a scarf from the same brand to decorate the bag. Of course, she didn't give Zola just one scarf. With Zola's curious gaze on her, Emily skillfully took scarves out of neatly packed boxes. She tied one into a bow on the handle of Zola's bag.
Watching Zola, who seemed to be inspecting both her and the bag like a small animal, Emily smiled slightly. "Silly girl," she said, "if you don't wrap the handle with this scarf, it will get dirty. You know this bag is very delicate. Of course, if you want to make it part of your style, that's fine too.
Zola smiled and said to Emily, "It's beautiful. I've been taking your things all this time, and I feel a bit guilty."
Emily sneered inwardly. After taking so many things already, Zola only now realised that nothing comes for free—but her face remained adorned with a warm smile. "Silly girl," she said, "we're going to be best friends for life. There's nothing to feel awkward about taking something from a best friend. Besides, that day when I got drunk, and you took care of me, I never properly thanked you either."
Zola tried to refuse at first, but she couldn't resist her desire and accepted the gift. Emily accompanied Zola to the bus stop and watched as she got on the bus and left.
Sitting on the bus, Zola found herself thinking about Emily. She had never seen Emily take a bus before. Honestly, she herself was not particularly fond of buses. The departure times were rarely precise, and arrival times even less so. Sometimes, if the driver was in a bad mood, it felt as if she owed them millions. The air quality relied entirely on the courtesy of fellow passengers; a single unwashed person could make the whole bus reek. That wasn't even the worst part—encountering a bus full of restless teenagers was truly miserable.
Zola once ran into two teenage boys. Though there were only two, their commotion felt like an entire army, blasting loud, chaotic pop music—not ordinary pop music, but the kind full of profanity, extreme insults toward women, and an obsessive pursuit of money. Zola had decided to ignore them, but they still hurled insults, telling her to go back to her own country. Zola didn't respond, which only made them shout louder.
That incident lingered in Zola's mind for a long time. Even the occasional appearance of fluffy kittens or puppies on the bus couldn't erase her aversion to public transport. She wondered how Emily commuted. Zola imagined she must have her own car—not an ordinary one, but a luxury car, probably in a striking color. Yet Zola had never seen Emily drive. Perhaps it was because every time they went out of school, it was either to eat or to queue. Maybe Emily didn't even have a car and took a taxi every day. Zola simply could not picture Emily squeezed onto a crowded bus.
Emily stood on the balcony of her apartment, watching the sunset. The sun slowly sank below the horizon, and the orange-red afterglow spread across the streets lined with towering buildings, turning the glass façades into a golden hue. In the distance, skyscrapers shimmered in the interplay of light and shadow, while the traffic below seemed bathed in a warm glow. A gentle breeze blew, carrying the city's unique scent, mingled with a hint of floral fragrance and the fresh aroma of the wooden balcony floor. From this vantage point, she could feel the city's bustling energy while also enjoying a moment of calm.
Suddenly, she felt like having a cigarette. She patted down all her pockets, only to realize that she had already quit long ago. A wave of emptiness washed over her, and she felt like crying. The city bustled with people, coming and going. They arrived with hope—would they leave with disappointment? Emily felt that she had everything she could want, and all of it was right here in this apartment: an entire wall filled with luxury handbags. If she ever wanted to leave, she thought, selling these bags could probably let her live in style for twenty or thirty years.
It seemed as though she had already fulfilled the dreams of her teenage years, yet somehow it all felt so far away. So close, yet so distant—like a bubble. She could see it right before her eyes, yet dared not touch it; even blowing on it required careful hesitation.
So, what did her life really amount to? And what did she, Emily, amount to?