The quiet hum of Tokyo at night seeped through the cracks of Mika's small apartment. The neon glow from a nearby convenience store sign bled through the curtains, painting faint blue and pink streaks across the white walls. The space was cluttered with the detritus of long nights and unfinished projects—coffee cups with dried rings, a mess of tangled cords on the desk, and a forgotten instant ramen bowl teetering on top of a stack of tech manuals.
Mika stretched her stiff shoulders and rolled her neck. Another day, another dead-end freelance gig. She eyed the blinking cursor on her laptop, the coding work she'd left half-done hours ago. But her mind had wandered, as it often did lately. The dating app, "The Thread," was open in another tab, quietly reminding her of the message she still hadn't sent.
She frowned, leaning back in her chair. She wasn't even sure why she'd downloaded the app in the first place. It wasn't like her to trust algorithms with something as personal as her love life, but loneliness had a funny way of making you try things you wouldn't otherwise. The app's promise had sounded almost absurd: "True matches across the world, powered by revolutionary algorithms." Mika hadn't believed it for a second, but after yet another Friday night spent alone, she'd signed up on a whim.
Most of the profiles were the same: gym enthusiasts, salarymen showing off expensive watches, people looking for fun instead of connection. She'd already swiped past dozens, her thumb moving on autopilot, until her finger hovered over one name.
Adina M.
The profile picture wasn't a selfie. It was a photograph of a hand holding a lavender sprig against a backdrop of soft, hazy sunlight. Mika tilted her head, curious. The accompanying quote below the picture stopped her cold.
"The smell of lavender reminds me of summer afternoons at my grandmother's house. The sun, the books, the endless skies—it was enough to feel infinite, if only for a moment."
Mika's lips parted slightly. Infinite. The word lingered in her mind, as if Adina had somehow reached through the screen and handed it to her. Unlike the usual shallow introductions, this profile felt... thoughtful. Personal. Mika tapped to read more.
The answers to the app's prompts only deepened the impression:
Question: What makes you happiest?
"Rain. The way it splashes against windows while I sketch. It's like the world pauses just for me."
Mika let out a low breath. Most people answered that question with vague clichés: "spending time with friends," "family," or "traveling." But Adina's answer painted a picture. She could almost hear the rain tapping against glass, could imagine this stranger sketching quietly, lost in her own little world.
For a long moment, Mika just stared at the screen. Then she opened a new tab and started Googling cheap flights to Bucharest before snapping herself out of it. Stop. You're being ridiculous. She's just a profile.
Her finger hovered over the "Message" button. Mika didn't usually send the first message. It felt too much like shouting into the void. But something about Adina's answers stuck with her.
She typed hesitantly:
"Hey, I love your answer about the rain while sketching. Are you an artist, or is it just a hobby?"
Her thumb wavered over the Send button. The longer she stared at the words, the more ridiculous they seemed. Her brain raced with excuses to delete the message: She probably won't reply. She'll think you're boring. She's halfway across the world. What's the point?
Before she could overthink it further, she hit send. The message disappeared into the ether, leaving her staring at the empty chat box. The silence was excruciating.
Mika shook her head and stood, brushing crumbs off her pajama pants. She grabbed a half-empty coffee cup and made her way to the kitchen, trying to distract herself. But as she reached for the faucet, her phone buzzed.
She froze. Her heart thudded once, sharply, before she hurried back to her desk. The screen glowed with a notification from "The Thread."
Adina had replied.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked her phone.
"It's both, but I wouldn't call myself an artist yet. What about you—what's your favorite kind of weather?"
A smile tugged at Mika's lips before she realized it. She sat down, the reply forming in her mind almost instinctively.
"Stormy. The kind that makes you feel small, like the world's reminding you there's something bigger out there."
The reply came almost instantly:
"I love that. It's terrifying but comforting, isn't it? Like chaos you can trust."
Mika leaned back in her chair, her smile deepening. Chaos you can trust. The phrase lingered in her mind, poetic and oddly reassuring. She found herself staring at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, eager to keep the conversation going.
"What do you usually sketch during the rain?"
Adina's reply painted a vivid image:
"Whatever catches my eye. Once, I sketched the reflection of an old man sitting by a café window. He didn't see me, but I remember the way the rain blurred his face—it felt like I was capturing something fleeting, something only I could see."
Mika read the message twice, her breath catching. It wasn't just the words; it was the way Adina described things, as though she could see magic in the smallest details.
For the first time in a long time, Mika felt the quiet pull of hope.
---
Hours slipped by unnoticed as the conversation deepened. Mika told Adina about the ramen shops tucked into Tokyo's alleys, about her favorite hidden bookstore where the owner let her browse for hours without interruption. Adina shared memories of her grandmother's lavender fields, of wandering Bucharest's cobblestone streets with her camera slung over her shoulder.
They talked about the books they loved, the songs that made them cry, the small moments that stuck with them for no reason at all. Mika had never felt so seen.
By the time the sun began to rise, painting faint gold streaks across the edges of her curtains, Mika realized with a jolt that she hadn't worked on her freelance project at all. Her client would kill her. But as she stared at the last message Adina had sent, she couldn't bring herself to care.
"Do you ever feel like certain people are meant to find you, no matter the distance?"
Mika stared at the words for a long time, her fingers brushing the edges of her keyboard. Finally, she typed her reply:
"Maybe. I think I do now."