Sara awoke to the relentless buzzing of her phone against the floor, a sound so grating that it made her want to throw her pillow at the wall. She groaned, pulling the blanket tighter over her head, praying that the noise would just go away. But, of course, it didn’t. With a defeated sigh, she fumbled around the edge of her futon, swiping aimlessly through the mess of crumpled tissues, empty chu-hai cans, and a pair of socks she couldn't remember wearing.

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 after the breakup. Her ex had accused her of being “extra” and “materialistic” — like those were bad things! Sure, she’d casually mentioned how upgrading their ramen nights to sushi would be a nice change, but wasn't that normal?

•••

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 had 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, Fujin Isamu leaned back in his luxurious office chair, staring out at the vast Tokyo skyline. The penthouse was eerily quiet, save for the 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. But somehow, he found himself checking his messages more often than he cared to admit.

The world of corporate meetings and spreadsheets had been his reality for so long, but Sara’s drunken, unfiltered rant had been like a breath of fresh air. Her honesty—raw, loud, and utterly unpolished—was a stark contrast to the calculated, sometimes cutthroat conversations that dominated his life. And yet, her words had held a certain charm.
His assistant knocked lightly at the door, interrupting his thoughts.

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

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 rookie 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 instant ramen, her nights often a mix of dreams and self-doubt.

Across town, Fujin Isamu adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit as he strode out of his penthouse office. The CEO of Fujin IT Ltd., he lived a life of precision and control, where every decision was weighed, every move calculated. His company was a behemoth in the tech industry, and his days were spent in a world of sleek skyscrapers, power lunches, and relentless ambition.

They were from two completely different worlds—hers filled with messy trial and error, his governed by order and responsibility. Yet, through one drunken call and a strange twist of fate, their paths had crossed in a way neither of them could have anticipated.