The morning of the symposium dawned clear and cold, the sky a pale, washed-out blue that promised nothing. I dressed with deliberate care—not to seduce, but to intrigue. I chose a dark, tailored pair of trousers, a simple cream-colored silk blouse, and a blazer that fit as if it had been made for me. I looked professional, intelligent, and utterly unlike the frantic girl from the coffee shop or the mysterious figure in the park.
I pulled my hair back into a severe, low knot that highlighted the bones of my face and, I hoped, my "ancient eyes." I needed to look like someone who belonged in a room of intellectuals, not a lovelorn immortal with centuries of baggage.
Just as I was slipping on my heels, my phone buzzed with Apple's distinctive ringtone—the opening notes of "Soda Pop" by some Korean boy band from that show called Demon Hunters, an aggressively upbeat pop song she'd chosen specifically because she knew it annoyed me. I remember Apple being so obsessed with that show, though not with the girls in it—it was the boys who sang this song that had captured her heart. I had to admit; it did have a nice melody. But at this point, it annoyed the hell out of me, especially when I was in crowded places and it blared at full volume. The irony wasn't lost on me: Apple, who constantly ranted about fake people and couldn't stand phonies, was completely obsessed with these computer-generated boys who weren't even humanly alive.
Apple: G! Where are you?? I'm bored and my neighbour-mate is doing that thing where she meditates in her living room and it's SO LOUD. The silence. The silence is SO LOUD. Come hang out with me. I'll buy you coffee. The good kind, not The Grind's dishwater.
I smiled and typed back: Can't today. I have plans.
Apple: Plans? PLANS? What plans? You never have plans. I'm the one with plans. Your plans are usually "staring at old books" and "contemplating the void." Spill.
Me: I'm going to a symposium. At the Grand Hotel.
Apple: A symp—G. That's not a word. That's not a real word. That's something old people say when they want to sound smart at dinner parties. What kind of symposium?
Me: Sustainable technologies. Water purification. Ecological preservation. That sort of thing.
Apple: ...you're joking. You have to be joking. You're telling me, on this beautiful Saturday day, you're choosing to go listen to people talk about H2O for HOURS instead of hanging out with your best friend who LOVES you and has NEW GOSSIP about the philosophy department's latest scandal?
Me: It's for my thesis. Academic research.
Apple: Your thesis is about ancient mythology, not water. Since when do ancient gods care about H2O? Wait. Don't answer that. They probably did. Everything was about sacrifices and rain dances with mythology people, especially you.
Me: It's interdisciplinary. And Vance Applied Biologics is sponsoring it. The CEO is giving the keynote.
There was a long pause. I could practically hear the gears turning in Apple's brain.
Apple: Vance. As in... Kaelen Vance? As in Coffee Shop Running Man? As in the human equivalent of a "do not disturb" sign wrapped in an expensive suit? THAT Vance?
Me: Yes.
Apple: G. G, no. G, please. Tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing.
Me: I'm doing academic research.
Apple: YOU'RE GOING TO STALK HIM. You're going to stand in the back of some stuffy room making googly eyes at a man who literally RAN AWAY from you like you were selling essential oils that comes with lifelong, expensive, NOT NEEDED Insurance plan. This is insane. This is the behaviour of someone who needs an intervention.
Me: I'm not going to stalk him. I'm going to observe. From a distance. Professionally.
Apple: Observe! From a distance! Professionally? G, that's literally the definition of stalking. I think that's the legal definition. They teach it in law school. "Observing from a distance professionally" = jail.
I laughed despite myself.
Apple: Men like Kaelen Vance are a SPECIES, okay? I've done research. Not legal research, but life research. They're the kind who probably have a portrait of themselves aging in their attic while they stay young and heartless. They're handsome, successful, emotionally constipated, and they leave a trail of good-natured hearts shattered in their wake like breadcrumbs for the birds of misery to peck at. And YOU, my beautiful, sweet innocent friend, are prime breadcrumb material.
Me: That's very poetic.
Apple: I READ, G. I'm literate. I know things. Do you know what happened to my cousin Margaret? No, you don't, because I've never told you. She dated a "Kaelen Vance type." Rich. Brooding. Mysterious. He took her to nice restaurants, bought her gifts, made her feel like the centre of the universe. Got into her panties. And then one day he just... evaporated. Like a vampire who got invited in and then realized he forgot his sunscreen. She was in bed for THREE WEEKS, G! Three weeks! of watching dry heartbreaking movies and eating ice cream straight from the tub while whispering "why" into the darkness. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?
Me: That's a very specific and concerning story.
Apple: IT'S A CAUTIONARY TALE. These men, they're not built for love. They're built for quarterly reports and emotional unavailability. They probably have a folder in their brain labelled "Feelings" and it's just empty except for a single sticky note that says "deal with later" and "later" never comes because they die alone surrounded by their money and their regrets.
Me: You've put a lot of thought into this.
Apple: I CARE ABOUT YOU! you absolute walnut! I'm not going to watch you throw yourself at a man who looked at you like you are some sort of OUT OF THIS WORLD WALNUT he couldn't process. You deserve someone who looks at you like you're the answer to a question they've been asking their whole life. Not someone who runs away and then haunts your dreams.
I paused at that, her words striking closer to home than she could possibly know.
Apple: Look. I know I can't stop you. You're like a force of nature when you decide something. You're the "going to climb a mountain in bare feet" type, emotionally speaking. But promise me something.
Me: What?
Apple: Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me that if he pulls that "stay away from me" garbage again, you'll walk away with your head high and your pretty eyes dry. And promise me that if he hurts you—really hurts you—you'll let me bring something heavy to his stupid glass tower and introduce his kneecaps to some old-fashioned justice.
Me: You're going to bring something heavy?
Apple: I have a very nice wooden rolling pin from my grandmother. It's sentimental. But also, EFFECTIVE. I've done research. You can't DNA test wood grain. It's the perfect crime. Also, I have a friend who works at the Grand Hotel, so if you cause a scene, I'll hear about it immediately. Just so you know. I have sources.
I laughed out loud, the sound surprising me in my quiet apartment.
Me: I promise to be careful. And if things go terribly wrong, you'll be the first person I call. With the rolling pin.
Apple: THAT'S MY GAL! Now go. Do your academic thing. Look devastatingly intellectual and beautiful with lots of confidence. Make him question every life choice that led him to this moment. But if he so much as looks at you like you're a bug under a microscope, I'm coming. And the rolling pin is coming with me.
Me: Noted. Love you, App.
Apple: Love you too, idiot. Now text me updates. I need material for my "I told you so" speech, whichever direction this goes. And remember—PROUD. PRETTY. CONFIDENT. Don't let him see you sweat.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and took one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was composed, professional, ready for battle. But beneath the surface, Apple's words had warmed something in me—a reminder that even in this lonely, endless existence, I had found something real. Something that asked nothing of me but my presence and my honesty.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.