Christmas In May
One SHot
December 24th
Year 1
"Cheers!"
The clank of glasses rang out in the cramped apartment.
I tried my best to shoot the vodka straight down my throat and not let it hit my tongue, but even the slightest bit of it made me recoil. I immediately went to wipe my mouth and wash out the taste with water.
"It can't be that bad, man."
"Shud up," I responded. The pompous jackass mocked me for my face scrunching up.
"Dude, the girls handled it better than you…"
I set the red Solo cup down.
"You think I care?"
One of the girls giggled.
"I think it's cute he had that kind of reaction."
I looked up for a second, then away—long enough to register fuzzy socks, blue jeans, and wavy blonde hair. She was the bright and bubbly type. I'd already spent enough time with her to know that much. Not bad. Just not someone I liked being around.
The second girl, who wore a mid-length skirt, had bare, creamy-colored legs. I didn't understand people who dressed like that in the middle of winter; it was the same with guys in shorts. I found them strange and alien. She was way quieter and more reserved than her friend, who was supposed to be my "date."
"…"
The girl had crouched down in front of me, both hands pressed lightly to her cheeks. When she looked up, our eyes met for the first time.
Her eyes were black—dark and hauntingly hazy, heavy-lidded.
She had softly waved, chestnut brown hair cut just above her shoulders, the ends uneven, which seemed more like a fashion choice rather than unruly. Getting a better look at her, she wore a loose green cardigan that hung off her shoulders, oversized and soft, paired with a fitted skirt and dark tights. Around her neck, she wore a thin choker, simple except for a small metal ring that rested against her collarbone.
My chest tightened; I'd always hated eye contact, especially with girls. It was awkward, intimidating—something I'd never grown out of, even in my mid twenties.
There was nothing in her gaze that screamed friendly.
No warmth.
No closeness.
Just a quiet emptiness.
It was intimidating.
From this angle, I could catch a glimpse of her laced black bra.
"Gah, sorry! I didn't mean to stare or anything like that; I was lost in thought."
She gave something I wouldn't quite call a smile.
"It's fine~," she mused, standing upright, balancing herself.
"You're easy to fluster~," she said, curling her fingers behind her back.
"You can tell my friend here doesn't get out much. He's very shy around pretty—gah, ow, that was my stomach!"
FLUMP
My so-called friend threw a hand over my shoulder and whispered in my ear.
"Listen, man, I invited you here because you owed me—at least look like you're having fun."
I rolled my eyes and pushed his arm off me.
"I'll do as I please."
The blonde one spoke up.
"Alright, enough of that. Let's start with some games!"
I internally sighed. I was only here as a favor. The thought of spending Christmas Eve with my family seemed like the worst option, so I bit the bullet.
We first played beer pong, and I was paired with the chestnut-haired girl.
"Don't let me down now," she said.
I'd only played beer pong once, and that was with water.
Safe to say, I failed miserably.
She carried me the entire time, and somehow we won.
"Chin up, we'll get 'em next time," she said, holding up her fist.
"…"
"Come on, don't tell me you don't know what a fist bump is," she tilted her head to the side.
"R-right, sorry."
I bumped fists with her.
"Yay," she gave a half-smile.
The next game we played was Truth or Drink.
The questions were surprisingly tame—just about niche things, like if you ever stole something, or what the worst thing you'd done in school was.
Then, when it got to me, of course, they asked what I wanted to avoid.
"What was your dream growing up? Have you, or are you doing anything to accomplish it?"
This was asked by my so-called friend, who knew exactly what it was and probably just wanted to embarrass me.
Wasn't it like I should lie, right? I didn't wanna drink, and I also didn't wanna say something so cheesy and embarrassing.
"I… always wanted to make my own comic," I said bitterly. It wasn't like I'd ever see these girls again, so I said it.
I hesitantly looked up to see their reactions, expecting them to laugh or give me pity. The more reserved one was just resting her red Solo cup on her lap.
But the other one clasped her hands together.
"Whoa, that's amazing! You seemed like the creative type!" she said.
"I know, right? He gives off that loner vibe!" Ymir nudged her.
The girl poked him in the side.
"Yeow! Abuse!"
"Be nice. You're a friend who has an admirable goal! Shouldn't we all be so lucky?"
Ymir spoke up. "He also has this thing called hyperphantasia! It's kinda cool!"
The chipper girl asked, "What's that?"
"It means he can legit see objects in his mind. It's like some Jedi shit!"
The girl clasped her hands together. "That's so cool!"
She was definitely too drunk to understand.
"It's fine. It's nothing more than an idea—not like I could really make it work." I rubbed the back of my head with a laugh.
"A person's dream is nothing to laugh at," the reclusive friend said, her chestnut hair framing her face. She said it in a calm, soothing voice, looking straight into my eyes.
I looked away quickly.
"You totally gotta show us sometime. I'd love to read it," the chestnut-haired girl said.
I met her eyes again for a second; she seemed genuine.
"Yeah… maybe some other time," I said.
"Alright, enough of that—let's play another game! I wanna drink more!" the blonde said.
Then came Never Have I Ever.
2
Things started okay, but as the others began to get drunk, things turned toward what I feared.
"Never have I ever had a one-night stand," Ymir said.
I was the only one to take a sip.
"Ooooh, really? I wouldn't have guessed!" the blonde said.
That asshole.
He knew what he was doing.
"Hm, you just seem to get more and more interesting," the other girl said, her legs crossed.
Why would that be interesting? I wanted to say, but I bit my lip.
I just wanted to leave, but I also didn't wanna be home.
I must've let my expression shift, because the blonde girl said,
"Are you not having fun?"
"Sorry, I just don't really vibe with get-togethers like this."
"Aww," she said. She moved to my side of the couch and started to stroke my head like I was a cat or something.
The other girl sat on my other side and wrapped her arms around my waist.
The hell?
I was being comforted by two pretty girls way out of my league.
I tried to signal to him to help me out, but he looked more pouty than anything, grinding his teeth.
"Ya know, it's getting late. Why don't we end things here?" he spoke up.
I'd spent the last hour trying to signal to him that I wanted out, but he ignored everything until after this happened. This was one of the reasons I disliked being friends with men.
"Why don't you walk her to her place, and I'll drive the other one home?" Ymir said.
"Right—you live only a couple of blocks away?"
"Yep, I do."
It sounded like a pain, but leaving a girl to walk home on Christmas Eve while tipsy sounded like an asshole move.
I didn't care for her one way or another, but I wasn't heartless. Plus, that would delay being home.
"Sure," I said.
I barely—if at all—knew the girl, so what would we even talk about on the way there?
"Well, my place, shall we?"
We lived in a small town. I'd moved here during my junior year of high school. It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone, though the girl I was with seemed somewhat new.
I didn't dislike the town. It was peaceful, with not a lot of drama. I just wanted my own space. The money I made now wasn't lucrative; I was stuck at my old lady's place for the time being.
"So, comic writer, huh?" she asked.
"Huh?—oh yeah, you remember that, huh…" I was hoping they'd all be too wasted to remember all that, but this one seemed attentive.
"I think that's a wonderful and creative dream," she said, bumping shoulders with me.
"Have you posted anything online?"
"Eh, uh, a little bit, but—"
"Wow, so you have a following. Now you gotta show me!"
I shook my head.
"Nothing of the sort, really. I just post because it's something I like doing—not for followers or anything!"
The girl stopped in front of me.
"Say…"
She started and leaned in close to my face—so close that I could feel her warm breath.
"What would you say if I could make your work famous?"
I blinked.
"Um… I'd say you must be some sort of wizard or God himself," I joked.
"Haha," she giggled.
"If only," she said in a soft, gentle voice. It felt as if she was looking past me when she said that.
"I'm serious. What would you do if I could grant you that idolization you've always wanted?" she said in a way that almost made me believe her.
"Sorry, I forgot to ask your name… what was it again?" I asked.
"May… just May."
She clasped her hands behind her back and gave that same haunting smile.
3
Her apartment smelled of lavender.
I, being a broke wage slave, was envious of her, if only a little. It baffled me that we were around the same age; she seemed far more put together.
The apartment was clean and painted white, but she didn't seem to have many things you'd expect. I was a little tipsy and wasn't really thinking. Being alone in a stranger's apartment could be dangerous, even as a man, but something about her lured me in—something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I had this irrational fear of waking up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidney stolen or something like that.
"Sit. I'll grab you some soda, or would you prefer a wine cooler~?"
"Soda's fine."
She tilted her head again.
"Really not an alcohol guy, eh?" Girls sure did like to tease quiet guys like me.
"Only really drink during occasions," I replied.
"Oh, is this not an occasion~? It's Christmas Eve after all." She dug into her fridge, and I did my best to remain a gentleman as she bent over to get the drinks. It was more complicated than the teasing.
"Here."
"Ah, cold!" She pressed the soda can against my neck.
She jumped over the couch and sat right next to me, reeeaallly close—to the point where our knees were touching.
It made my breath catch.
"So, you're gonna show me some of your work or not?"
I was caught off guard.
"Look, it's embarrassing, ya know?" I exclaimed
"My #1 ad only fan is my own mother!"
"Ya know—when people say 'ya know,' that means they're really flustered. I bet it's good; you're just modest!" she said.
"I just really don't like showing others," I added.
"Come on, it's not like I'll laugh at you. I find men who are passionate very attractive~."
This girl isn't good for the heart. I wasn't usually like this around people—especially women—but…
"Fine."
"Yay!" She threw her hands up.
It wasn't anything special—just crappy, messy art with subpar dialogue and—
Wow.
The art could use some work, but the story is interesting. A time-traveling romance story? Don't see that often, and the characters feel alive—not an easy task to pull off.
"Huh?"
She sounded like she actually enjoyed it.
"I mean, it's hella weird," she said, scrolling. "Space cowboys, alien monks with telepathic powers… none of this should work."
She glanced up at me, smiling.
"But it's strange. But I kinda like your strange."
I stared at her blankly
"What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly.
She kept looking at the screen.
No one besides my mom had seen my work. I kept it private; it was embarrassing to tell people you were a writer. It wasn't very lucrative or impressive if you weren't big. It was just a hobby and nothing else.
"You know," she added, almost casually, "have you ever thought about submitting this to a contest?"
"Yeah, I have, but people nowadays want more glamor and shine, I'm not every original besides the weird elements, people don't really vibe with out-of-the-ordinary works."
"Not original? I'd say you don't need originality. Passion trumps all that," she said.
"Yeah, maybe in the movies," I said roughly.
"Well, I like it. You should have some more faith in your readers to understand subtext." She took another swig of her beer.
"Ya know it's okay to be weird," she said, raising her brow
Being weird didn't get you clicks and views; someone like her wouldn't understand
"So, writer boy… what got you into doing comics in the first place?"
I could feel her breath. For someone who'd been drinking alcohol all night, it smelled faintly of mint—sharp and fresh.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "It's nothing special."
"Oh no, don't be like that. Tell me!" she insisted.
"It's just… I don't know. I always liked stories growing up, ya know? So I decided to make my own."
"…"
"Staaaarreee."
"WHAT!"
"That's boring. You're lying, aren't you?" She set her beer down just to cross her arms.
For a woman, she sure was expressive.
"Lying? You're accusing a guy of lying about his hobbies?"
"Pah, don't give me that. I can tell when someone is passionate about something—to an unhealthy degree, I can smell it, you know. So tell me… what really made you wanna write comics?"
She leaned in close to my face. She puffed her cheeks and hid her thumbs in her hands.
Not really able to handle it, I looked away and folded.
"The real reason is that I wanna make something—help people like comics have helped me in the past growing up."
"Oh? Help in what way?" She made an O with her face.
I cringed slightly. "Well, I suppose… improving one's life. Making people think and feel something they haven't thought about before. There's a series I loved growing up called No Man's Land. It was a simple war story, but its world and characters are what really shone. Relational bonds and friendships… I wanna capture at least one person's heart the way it did for me." I took a breath. "To inspire and change one person's life is my dream—even if it's only one, while embracing my weirdness as a writer."
"Pffft."
"Eh?"
"Haha, wow, that's so sweet!" she said, hugging me.
"Hey, you weren't the one who said, 'A person's dream is nothing to laugh at'?"
"I know, I know—it's not that. It's just… You have this 'I'm so serious' attitude that something so feminine coming out of you is just… cute."
May wrapped her arms around my right arm.
"I love creative people," she said, rubbing against me.
"Especially men," she whispered into my ear.
I looked down. I could see the crevices of her breasts, the black laced bra. She wasn't very endowed, but boobs were boobs after all—it still made my spine tingle.
"You know I can tell when someone is serious about their craft, it bleeds into their work no matter what level they're on," she smiles, nuzzling against me.
"I'll repeat it… would you like to make your dreams come true?"
I knew at this point I should've backed out, but at the same time, I was tempted to learn more about this girl.
"Oh yeah? How would you do that—become my editor?" I said offhandedly.
"Something like that… all you have to do is seal the deal by sleeping with me."
"What?"
This chick can't be sane. No—she was drinking. There was a difference.
"Um, aren't we skipping some steps? I barely just learned your name!" I exclaimed. "Plus, you've been drinkin—"
"Ohhh, how chivalrous." She rested her head on her shoulder.
"You should know, I barely get drunk. It's like water to me. And I like you… like, a whole lot. Doesn't that count for something?" She closed her eyes.
I sat stiff. (No, not in that way.)
But even still, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, right? She was a pretty girl, and I was some shelf stocker.
No, no—people think with the right head!
"Wait, wait, hold on. Isn't this like a win-win for me? What do you get out of sleeping with me and getting me famous? What do you get out of it?"
She shifted her body on top of my lap on the couch.
She began straddling me and hooked her arms around my neck.
"Your soul, of course."
Yep. This chick is nuts.
"Haha," she giggled.
"Sorry, you should've seen your face."
She was screwing with me.
"But I am serious about your ambition. Don't you crave validation? Don't you want others to see what you make?" She walked her fingers up my chest.
"You're exceptional. You're talented. And you deserve the recognition."
Finally, her hand reached toward my collarbone.
"I can make that happen. All you have to do is say yes."
This girl wanted me—me, of all people? I wasn't particularly handsome or tall, but at that moment, I felt special. In one way or another, I felt desired, for once.
I couldn't see it before, but this girl was special.
I thought it was finally time to let my inhibitions run free.
If she was offering and was telling the truth, I wasn't doing anything wrong.
Her smell made my head feel light, and the muscles in my body eased; it was intoxicating.
"You said you can make my dream come true?" I asked.
"Yep. All we have to do is seal the deal~."
My hands shook. I gulped, and then—
"Fine."
The worst that can happen?
4
The next morning, the sun rays hit my eyelids.
I had done something I never thought I'd do. I felt as if I were a different person last night.
God, I must've sucked.
At least I didn't cry.
"Mee-rry chir-stmas~," she yawned.
"Oh, right," I sighed.
It was Christmas… and I woke up in the apartment of a girl I barely knew.
She sat up, wrapping herself in a blanket.
"Oh man, I've really done it now."
She leaned her head back.
"Don't tell me—was I that bad?"
I jolted and frantically shook my hands.
"No, nothing like that! I just… I'm not the type to do something like this. Guess I was more drunk than I thought…"
I didn't regret it; I felt like I was a little bolder than usual—more powerful, more in control.
"Though you did leave quite a few bite marks on me. Never met a girl who was into that."
I sat up and looked for my clothes.
"Nice birthmark," she said, amused.
I used my clothes to cover my ass.
"…"
"Still shy even after the way you moved~?"
Kill me now.
"Um… May, right?" I sputtered. "You mind not telling Ymir about this? He'd never let it go."
She placed a finger under her chin.
"Hmmm… works for me. The less people know, the better. It's as you said—a win-win?"
She got up from the bed to dress as well. I looked away instantly.
"So, feel confident yet?" she asked, slipping her skirt on.
"Confident?"
"You know—about your writing?" She finally finished getting dressed. She was wearing the same outfit from the day before. "I'll give you some advice in favor of the fun we had last night."
"Advice? I thought you'd just, like, spread my work online or something corny," I said.
"Hmmm… that would work too, but my method is a little less complex than social media handling. I'll give you one piece of advice, and you won't have to work at that crappy job anymore~."
I never told her about my job.
"Fine. What is it?"
She smiled at my answer, twirling around to rummage through a drawer, then pulled out a pen.
"Open your hand," she said.
She began scribbling something on my palm.
"The spell's done."
"Spell?"
"Yep. It'll last about one year." She capped the pen.
She simply smiled.
"Maybe I should have more one-night stands," I joked.
She stepped closer, her hands behind her back.
"Well, if that's the case, why don't we make this a tradition~?" She stood in front of me, ever so close yet again.
"Every Christmas Eve, we can meet. Then you can gain new inspiration… how does that sound?"
She licked her lips.
Was she serious?
How would casual sex help with that?
"Um, well, maybe instead we can start as—"
She placed a finger on my lips.
"Yes or no."
I hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Sure," I faltered.
"Good~. Here's my number—but only contact me near Christmas, 'kay?"
"Um… okay?"
She began to shove me.
"Hey, hey, hey!" I protested.
"Out, out, out."
She opened the front door.
"Also, don't sleep with anyone else, or else the spell will wear off, 'kay~?"
She smiled.
"Wait a sec—"
The door slammed right in my face.
I wanted to get to know her more, but soon after, I was standing outside her apartment.
Alone.
I banged on the door.
"Wait a sec! You didn't give me the advice!"
"…"
The door began to unlock. When she opened it, the chain was still on.
"Oh, right, silly me. Alright—my advice is—"
5
January
Year 1
It was strange—almost immediate.
As if what she said had come true.
As if she really were a god.
I dropped my original romance idea and pivoted into a reincarnation story. Five readers became five hundred in the span of days. It felt like the marking on my hand pulsed every time I picked up the pen to my drawing tablet.
People loved stories about losers getting a second chance, didn't they?
I fit the role well enough myself.
It wasn't just the story that changed; my art did too. Overnight, it went from stiff and amateur to something clean and confident. I was able to make proper proportions while always being visually appealing.
I shut myself in the room I grew up in and worked nonstop. I gridded pages, sketched panels, and inked. My wrists used to cramp easily, causing me to work slowly, but I felt no pain.
Comments piled up faster than I could read them.
"Wow, nice stuff."
"The art's insane."
"MC's badass."
I felt unstoppable. Like a train, every thought spilling straight onto the page.
I used to keep folders full of characters and backstories, timelines, and themes saved on a drive. This time, I didn't bother. I focused on one character—the hero. He grabbed readers immediately.
He was a superb swordsman, all dramatic and over-the-top.
I was happy with how it was going.
My original story stayed untouched. No one would care about it anyway. I'd worked on it for years, but now it felt amateurish—something I didn't want to show the world anymore.
March
Year 1
Three months passed.
I became a rising name in the indie scene almost overnight. Every chapter landed. Engagement was higher, and the numbers kept climbing. I thought it'd be overwhelming, but a meek person like me seemed to want more and more.
Before, I used to spend weeks thinking about framing and character motivation.
Now?
It just came to me.
The risks I used to take felt unnecessary. Safer choices performed better. Readers liked consistency. Familiar beats. Strong poses. Shocking moments.
The comments changed.
"Aura goes crazy in this chapter."
"He's so cool."
"Peak."
No one talked about themes anymore. Or the somberness.
I didn't mind.
Not one bit.
July
Year 1
A publisher reached out.
They liked the numbers—the growth.
They asked how often I could update.
"Weekly," I said, without thinking.
I quit my job the next day.
I tried calling May to tell he the good news and to thank her, whatever she did, it wrecked. I was getting deals and on track to do what not many people get to do.
Live out their dream
. But all I got was her voicemail
"Hey~ if you have this number, that means you're exceptional.
Don't worry if I don't answer.
We'll talk when the stars align… eventually."
Dead silence. I didn't like her. I didn't need to. She helped, and my work was finally gaining traction.
Recognition felt better than my past passion, when no one was watching.
It was as if I could finally create something hundreds, even thousands, could enjoy
September
Year 1
With the money I made, I was finally able to move out of my parents' place. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was mine.
I ended up grinding nonstop, getting work done weekly. I was writing the story as I went along. I had no clue where it was going, but people seemed to like it. My art only improved.
I was asked if I needed assistants, but I refused. I needed more. No one else could match my deadlines. I was the only one who could make it work.
I worked and worked, pumping out chapter after chapter. I knew what others wanted, what was popular.
November
Year 1
I began to grow sluggish. It was almost as if that drive had slowly stepped on the brakes and wound down to a halt. My art started to struggle, and the pain in my wrist began to take over.
It felt like I was losing my mojo.
My editors noticed.
They said things like:
"There are times like these."
"Not every chapter can be the best."
But I wanted to be the best.
They made me hire assistants after I fought it for so long, saying it was unhealthy to keep working at my pace.
December
Year 1
I called her.
I didn't know if this was real or not, but I needed to see her. I needed to be with her—to feel her and taste her yet once more.
"Hey, who's this?" she asked.
"It's me…" I responded.
"Oh yeah, I remember you—the comic guy, right? It's been a year already, huh?" she mused over the phone.
"Look, can we… um, meet?" I asked hesitantly.
"Sure, sure. You remember my place, right?"
"Yeah, I do." How could I forget? I'd never forget.
I met her again.
"You're not really a witch, are you?" I asked. "You have the apartment of a serial killer."
She laughed. A soft, breathy sound, and gave me a kiss
"Hmm, nope. Witches are a little more bitchy," she said plainly.
In the end, I felt rejuvenated, and my mind felt clearer. I felt as if I could draw again.
"I was thinking… maybe I could stay for a drink. Maybe even watch a crappy movie marathon?"
"Hmm? You wanna be with me that much~?" she teased.
"It's not like that. I just—well… it beats going home to my crazy family."
She tapped a finger against her chin.
"How about one terrible movie and some popcorn?"
She looked at me, eyes half-lidded.
"Great," I said. "How do you feel about A Very Harold & Kumar Christmas?"
She laughed.
"Wow, that is a shitty movie."
I spent Christmas with May.
January
Year 2
I was back at full force. I fired my assistants and went back to indie. I didn't need a publisher. I was at a point where my work was popular enough to stand on its own.
April
Year 2
I missed my Grandmother's funeral because of deadlines.
It was strange. I wasn't close to her, but I believed I still loved her. Yet my writing came first. I needed to pump out as much content as possible every week.
I had to keep up, or else people wouldn't read. And if people didn't read, where would I be? What would this all have been for?
June
Year 2
They wanted to turn my comic into a show.
It was my childhood dream to have my own anime or something like that, but it was just work at this point. Who really cared?
My writing and art were starting to become sloppy again—sooner this time around.
I tried calling her, but it led to voicemails. What was she doing? Why wouldn't she call me back?
I went to a fan signing. They asked about the characters and how I managed to draw week to week.
I told them a witch helped me.
During a live drawing at a convention, it was like my brain lagged. I forgot how the curves of the characters were supposed to go. The main heroine and the MC's faces became a hazy mess. What used to be second nature made my head buzz.
The event ended early, with the excuse that I was unwell.
What happened to that spark? I barely even dreamed anymore; it was all just black every night—just a black void.
I was washed up
August
Year 2
I needed her again.
I tried calling over and over, but she ignored me. I went to her place, but she wasn't home.
I was starting to lose my mind. My dialogue became cheesy. My art turned sloppy.
I couldn't formulate words. I had no insight. When I tried to visualize a scene, it collapsed into a blurry mess of stick figures.
It was like my mind had gone blind.
That scared me enough to see a doctor.
I've always been paranoid about things like these, and it was finally happening to me.
The doctor asked me to picture an apple.
I told him I couldn't.
The shape and color were all a blurry mess. I had forgotten the taste and shape, the weight, everything.
He asked me to picture my childhood home.
I stared at the floor and shook my head.
He scribbled something down on his clipboard
"You're under a lot of stress," he said.
"Creative burnout is a real thing. I wouldn't worry too much about it; it's perfectly normal ."
"Will it come back?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"We'll run some tests," he insisted.
The tests came back normal.
This whole situation was anything but normal.
After I was discharged, I tried to get back into writing
They started calling me a one-hit wonder.
At first, it was just comments. Then articles. Then, people talked and shared my work, saying how I've lost my touch, and some said I never had it in the first place.
The fight lost its weight. The choreography stopped landing. Pages felt empty,
"It's soulless."
That one comment I read over and over again, this wasn't what she said would happen.
Editors stopped calling. Connections went dark—opportunities dried up without even a call back.
I spent money as it would recuperate itself, I bought things like new gear, upgrades, and distractions I didn't need.
None of it fixed the core issue.
I needed something to excite people.
Something that would bring them all back, craving more,
What did people want?
What was popular?
What I believed didn't matter; I needed explosive moments, ones that shocked people.
That trended on Twitter,
What was I supposed to do once all the hype died down?
October
Year 2
Every day, I went back to her place.
At first, I told myself it was just that I believed she must have worked all day somewhere. I'd visit her apartment every day for the past few weeks, but I never got an answer.
The complex wasn't all that fancy or unkempt. It was fall, so leaves were going to fall to the ground. Someone had already put up cheap orange and black streamers for the holiday, the paper pumpkins sagged and just looked half assed
I came back the next day. And the day after that.
Morning. Evening. Sometimes late at night, when I couldn't focus on anything else. I camped outside her apartment for most days.
Again. And again
I knocked until my hand went numb.
Nothing.
One afternoon, as I was standing there longer than I meant to, a door across the hall opened. An older woman stepped out, holding a small watering can. She looked at me the way people look at stains they don't remember making.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I expected. "Do you know the girl who lives here?"
She slowly lifted her gaze to me, then to the door
"Oh," she said, squinting. "The young lady."
My chest tightened. Have you seen her around lately?" I asked, "I'm her friend, and I have something significant to give her."Ii lied
The woman shook her head and gave a soft, dismissive smile
"That girl is never home."
"Really?" I asked. "Never?"
She shrugged, watering the plant by her door. "Comes and goes, she's one of the more mysterious neighbors I've had, a real private girl."
"But does come home right?" I pressed.
The woman paused, then looked at me again, this time with mild concern.
"I suppose," she said. "But as I said, I don't really catch her all too often."
She went back inside without another word, leaving the door to swing shut behind her.
I stood there long after.
I felt a lump in my throat
How long was I supposed to stand here and wait for her? I needed her
On the walk home, my head buzzed. I couldn't remember or even pitch what I had for breakfast, even if I had anything at all
Nothing came.
For the first time since meeting her, I felt truly alone.
And terrified.
I kept replaying the same sentence in my head, over and over, until it melted into a rhythm.
I told myself I was fine.
I didn't believe it.
November
Year 2
I showed up at her place plastered, waiting outside her door. I didn't remember when I'd started drinking alone. The alcohol kept me warm, that's really all that matters. As I walked up her steps, I nearly bumped into a man.
"Ah, sorry," I said, my feet unsteady.
" You have business here?" the man asked
"What's it to you…" I said, my eyes half closed
"I'm the landlord's son. My eyes widened. I didn't think of ever asking him.
"Can you let me into the apartment? I'm her boyfriend," I lied
" I'm worried about her, and she hasn't answered my calls."
The man looked me up and down, his nose crinkling as he got closer
"I can let you in supervised, but I wouldn't hold my breath, she's out more often than not' he grumbled and fiddled with his keys
"If you really are her boyfriend, I don't envy you; you look like a mess over some woman who brings new guys around all the time
He unlocked the door
It was the same
Unpacked boxes and white walls
It was as if time never passed in this apartment.
"May?" I called out without any response
"May you be here?/" I looked at the room, then the bathroom,
Empty
My stomach dropped
I couldn't think clearly
December 24th
Year 2
I pounded on her door so hard. I felt like it would leave its hinges
Over and over again
"Jeez, what are you doing? You're gonna scare the strays," May's voice drifted from the stairwell.
She was walking up the steps with a brown grocery bag in her arms, dressed the same way she always was. Green cardigan. Skirt. Like she had nothing else to wear, she smelled the same as I remembered,
Everything in me went white.
"Where have you been?" I shouted. "I've been calling you for weeks."
She stopped a few inches in front of me, blinking in mild surprise.
"Jeez. Calm down."
I grabbed her arms before I realized I was doing it.
"I need it," I said. "I need you."
She didn't pull away.
She didn't protest
No struggling
She just looked at me.
With those same black hollow eyes
"…Oh," she said softly.
Something squeezed in my chest. Sharp. Sudden.
I staggered back, gasping.
"I can't—" I pressed my palm to my sternum. Everything is gone, everything I worked so hard for, I can barely see it anymore!
She tilted her head.
"See what?"
"My work, the joy I had creating," I said. "My ideas. My head is empty. I can't picture anything. It's gone, it's like my imagination has gone blind!
Her expression shifted, not shocked. Not guilty.
Satisfied, she pursed her lips together.
"Ah," she murmured. "You finally noticed."
My knees buckled. I dropped to the cold marble floor, clutching my chest.
"What did you do to me?" I whispered. "What's happening to me, you drug me or something?"
She sighed, almost fondly.
"You really did have a lot in you," she said. "I was worried you'd burn out sooner."
I looked up at her, her expression changed to one of disdain, and that friendly, laid-back demeanor was gone.
"What are you talking about?"
She crouched in front of me, just like the first night. Hands to her cheeks. Black eyes, heavy-lidded and calm, meet my eyes; I could almost see myself in his hollow eye.s
"I told you I loved creative men," she said. "I just never said in what way.
My mouth felt dry.
"You're some kind of demon? I spurrtered
"I made a deal with the devil, didn't I?" My heart began to pound in my chest, and I felt nauseous and dizzy, the smell of mint was so strong it felt like it was messing with my head
She smiled.
"Hyperphantasia," she mused. "Such a rare treat. I've never had one last this long."
I shook my head. "You said you liked me."
"I did," she replied easily. "You were sweet. Quiet. Passionate~."
Her thumb parted my hair away from my eye.s
"They always get like this at the end," she added. "Hostile. Desperate.. Always disappointing.
I bit my lip so hard it drew blood, and the taste of iron filled my mouth
"You're a witch," I said weakly.
She giggled softly.
"Oh, no." She lifted my chin." Witches are far bitchier."
She reached into her bag and pulled something out—a syringe.
"I'm just a succubus," she said. "A ever so lonely one," she sighed, she almost seemed genuinely upset.
Almost
I tried to crawl back, but my limbs wouldn't listen.
"You won't remember this part," she continued, gently. "And you won't see me again."
She pressed the needle into my arm.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You really did fill me up."
The world went dark.
6
I woke up in a hospital.
The first thing I noticed was the smell, clean, sharp, and very distinct
"You alright, kid?" a voice said.
I turned my head slightly. A doctor stood near the foot of the bed, clipboard tucked under his arm. He was an older man with wrinkles on his forehead.
"You gave the old landlord a good scare. From what we can tell, you just straight up collapsed outside the apartment building.
"I'm fine," I said, staring back up at the ceiling.
I tried to sit up. My body had other thoughts.
"Whoa, easy son," he said, stepping closer. "Relax. You had something in your system. Horse tranquilizer, by the looks of it. You're still recovering."
So she hadn't half-assed it.
I swallowed. My mouth felt dry, and my hands were clammy,
"You know who did this to you?" he asked.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Images flickered. A faint smile, the way she tilted her head, her calm demeanor as I pinned her against the wall. I grimaced at the thought of my actions.
"No," I said.
The doctor was silent. I could tell he was studying me.
"We ran the basics," he continued. "Bloodwork looks clean now. Heart rate spiked when you came in, but it's stabilized. No signs of long-term effects or damage, so that I wouldn't worry much ."
" Do you remember your name and why you were there?" The doctor asked
"Yeah, I do," I responded.
The doctor relaxed
"You should rest," he said finally. "We'll keep you overnight for observation."
As he turned to leave, I stared back up at the ceiling again.
I tried to picture her face.
Nothing came.
Just an outline where something important used to be.
I closed my eyes and wondered
What now?
7
February
Year 3
I lost it all.
The talent.
My sense of choreography.
The way motion used to make sense in my head.
Everything.
At first, I tried to pretend it was temporary. It was just. Burnout. Something time and rest could fix. But every page I drew felt wrong; I couldn't emulate the work I did while I was with May.
People noticed.
The comments slowed, then shifted.
"This chapter feels off."
"Art's not hitting as it used to."
"What happened?"
Then they stopped altogether.
People lost interest fast. The numbers fell off a cliff. My inbox, once overflowing, went quiet. Editors stopped replying. Assistants moved on. The world moved on. In this consumer culture of ourss only those who have real talent and vision survive in the end,
It was unavoidable, really.
Who did I think I was? Some big shot?
It was never really me in control. It wasn't my art or my story, just a cheap intimation, or someone far more skilled than I ever could be.
I went back to May's apartment.
The building looked the same, the chipped paint and the marble floors, when I knocked gently, there was no answer.
I waited.
Nothing.
The landlord found me sitting on the steps.
"She moved out," he said, scratching the side of his face. "Same day you got hauled off in the ambulance."
I already guessed that.
"Though for a kid her age, she sure left the place intact, not even a single stain was left, less work on my part," the old man chuckled.
That tracked.
She didn't seem like the type to really leave a mark. It was like she fell off the face of the earth.
I thought about waiting for a few hours, but along with my fame and fortune, so did my desperation go away.
I didn't and couldn't need her.
I walked home with nothing in my hands and nothing in my head.
For the first time in years, I finally let myself cry.
May
Year?
I moved back in with my parents, the rent due at my place wouldn't cover the expenses. I apologize for how I've been acting, missing my grandma's funeral and ghosting them for views and clicks. I was disgusted by the way I acted. I started attending more family events and gained some experience. I went back to that 9-5 and put my all into saving.
However, one day..
I was in my room, searching.
I misplaced my earbuds and was going mad.
I dug through drawers and old boxes, those that I still hadn't unpacked since moving back. Most of it was useless crap: loose cables, manga, old controllers.
All of it was on top of a big black book
A folder.
I pulled it out from the bottom of the box. Dust clung to both sides of it, and when I opened it, the smell hit me. It has old drawing paper.
"It felt fragile, like it might tear if I pressed too hard."
Then I noticed some designs she—my first ones.
The cover was amateurish. The proportions were all off, and the main character had too much going on design-wise
I snorted to myself
.
God, it was bad.
But I felt myself smiling.
I sat down at my desk, spreading the pages out. The line work was shaky, and the hands were god awful.
But there was something there.
Substance and Passion
All those days and nights I spent working on these, I wasn't the best, but at least I had something even I lacked at my peak.
Love and care
I didn't have comments or lines of people wanting my autograph
But I had one thing no one could take from me
Pasion
That certain angle and that craft, the enjoyment of doing something you care about, can't be taken away or replaced by anyone.
It was just me, trying terribly and horrendously, but making an effort.
I leaned back in my chair, cracking my spine, the familiar strain settling into my shoulders.
Even if no one ever read it…
Even if it never went anywhere…
As long as I could make one person feel something.
As long as I get to make something I love to do
What else really mattered?
I gathered the pages into a loose stack,
"Hey, Mom," I called out.
"I've got something I wanna show you."
It wasn't groundbreaking.
It was messy—
Crazy and weird.
But it was mine.
And I loved doing it
THE END