You open your eyes, and the first thing you see is the Eye of Atlas, enormous and golden through your bedroom window, watching you with that same tenderness as always—as if telling you everything is okay, the day is going to work out, and you can do this. You want to believe it. Today, for some reason you can't explain, you have a feeling the day is going to be special.
Your bedroom isn't anything to write home about. A twin bed pushed against the wall, a nightstand with peeling paint, a wardrobe that creaks when you open it. You're a newly hired young salaried worker, and your paycheck doesn't stretch to much more than this. But that's okay. This is only the beginning. With hard work and dedication, the promotion will come soon, along with stability, maybe an apartment with a bigger window—who knows, maybe even a real bathtub instead of this cramped shower stall where your scales scrape against the walls.
But now isn't the time to daydream. You have to work.
You brush your teeth while lazy bubbles float up from the sink, rising to the ceiling and popping in tiny sparkles. You shower amid waters that sing along with you—a soft melody that changes with the temperature—and take the time to carefully clean the scales on your tail, running your fingers between each row until they're smooth. Breakfast: bread with blue jelly and a cup of moon coffee that glows faintly when you blow on it. Simple, but enough.
You race down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and when you turn into the hallway toward the building's entrance—you run into someone.
Not exactly "someone." A wall. A living, warm wall that smells like earth after rain. You smack your face into what seems to be the middle of this person's chest and stagger backward, slowly raising your eyes—chest, shoulders, neck, chin, and higher still, much higher still, a face looking down at you with an expression you can't decipher.
Over six and a half feet tall. Curved horns. A taurian.
Apparently, six and a half feet isn't enough to catch the attention of a slightly late merfolk.
You want to apologize. You want to introduce yourself. You want to say you're the neighbor next door, that you just moved in, that you don't usually run people over in the hallway. But the clock inside your head is screaming that you're late, so all that comes out is an awkward bow and a half-choked, "Sorry!" Your legs are already carrying you away before the rest of your body can agree with the decision.
You run to the bus stop. The floating bus is already there, thank the gods, and in less than fifteen minutes you're at the company. Three and a half minutes late. It could be worse.
You greet your coworkers with a smile no one returns very enthusiastically, clock in, and pick up the teas at the front desk to distribute throughout the floors. That's what you do. For now, at least. A gofer. A doormat with a badge. You carry papers from one place to another, deliver messages that could have been emails, race across the city to deliver important documents your superiors forgot on their desks, and help move boxes—some of them too heavy for you, but you don't complain. Never complain.
The more experienced employees give you a hard time, of course. There's always someone who thinks it's funny to make the new guy do pointless things just to see his exhausted face. You put up with it. It's part of the job.
But what eats at you isn't the work. It's the run-in.
It was the first time you'd seen your neighbor, and you'd already made that impression. He must hate you now. He definitely hates you. You smacked into his chest like he was a revolving door and ran off without even getting a good look at his face. What if he'd been carrying something important? What if he'd dropped it because of you? What if he was the vindictive type? What if he waited for you in the hallway every morning just to stare at you with those eyes that looked like they could rip you in half?
No. Let's stay positive. It was a bad first meeting, but you can fix it. You can apologize again, calmly, like a civilized person. Maybe bring him something. An apology gift. A cake? Cookies? Yeah, cookies sound good. But what do taurians like? What if he's the quirky type who doesn't like the usual stuff? You won't even be able to ask the salesclerk for advice, because you have no idea how to begin explaining that you ran into your giant neighbor and are now afraid of being crushed.
And while you were lost in those thoughts, time passed. Your shift ended.
The café is two blocks from the company. You walk in and stop in front of the glass display counter, staring at the sweets with the expression of someone choosing between disarming one bomb or another. Pies, cupcakes, decorated cookies, slices of cake with frosting that changes color.
The attendant—a satyr with curly hair and a smile far too wide—leans over the counter and watches you for a moment.
"Lavender and cherry cookies," she says, as if it's obvious. "Judging by your face, I think they'll be perfect for your problem."
You don't ask how she knows you have a problem. You don't ask why lavender and cherry. You were desperate, so you just nodded and paid. She wraps everything in a little package and hands it to you with a wink you don't know how to interpret.
It wasn't the best idea in the world, but you were desperate, so I don't blame you.
When you get back to the building, you climb the stairs with the care of a spy in enemy territory. You peek into the hallway before stepping off the stairs. No sign of your neighbor. You run to your apartment door, go inside, and lock it. Breathe.
Now: prepare yourself. You take another shower—quick, just to wash off the smell of work. You straighten your scales. You put on that perfume you save for special occasions, even if this occasion is apologizing to someone who probably wants to use you as a paperweight. You put on a shirt that isn't wrinkled. You look at yourself in the mirror.
Neat. Perfumed. Nervous.
You leave your apartment. Three steps to the door next door. You raise your fist.
What follows is the most off-key knock of your life. Three taps that sound like you're trying to tap out Morse code with trembling hands. No one answers.
You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Nothing.
You take a long, deep breath, the kind that's supposedly calming but in practice only makes you dizzy. You raise your fist again.
And then, beside you, a shadow becomes visible.
A shadow over six and a half feet tall.
You turn slowly. He's there, standing still and looking down at you. He must have come up the stairs while you were knocking on the empty door. Up close—very close—he's even bigger than you remembered. His horns curve forward with an elegance that doesn't match his size. His eyes are dark, deep, and fixed on you.
"What do you want at my apartment?"
His voice is as deep as an earthquake. It's not exactly anger. His voice just sounds like that. But you have no way of knowing that right now, so what your body does is extend the package of cookies toward him with both hands, blurt out, "Sorry about this morning, I'm your neighbor, please accept these," so quickly that it all becomes one word, and retreat into your apartment before he has time to answer.
The door closes. The lock turns. You slide to the floor, sitting with your back against the door, your heart pounding so hard that your scales vibrate.
He hates you. He definitely hates you. You handed cookies to a six-and-a-half-foot guy like you were paying a ransom. It's over. Your life in this building is over. You'll have to move. You'll have to live under a bridge. Merfolk like water anyway, right? It'll be fine.
On the other side of the hallway, behind a door you can't see, Elío is sitting on the sofa in his living room.
The package is open in his lap. He holds a lavender and cherry cookie between his fingers—enormous fingers that make the cookie look like a coin—and savors it slowly, chewing with a calmness that doesn't match the size of his bite. It's good. Really good, actually.
But the cookie isn't what has captured his attention.
It's the note. A little card decorated with hand-drawn hearts and wavy borders, which the café attendant slipped into the package as a freebie without you knowing. In the center, in neat lettering:
"For someone special. With affection."
Elío runs his finger along the outline of one of the hearts. Slowly. His expression is a little silly—that kind of look big, intimidating people make when they think no one is watching.
He bites into another cookie.
On the other side of the wall, you're hugging your knees, convinced you've just sealed your death sentence.
Maybe you've gained a secret admirer who believes your feelings are mutual. Meanwhile, you're shaking with fear that your gigantic neighbor is going to crush you.
In Gaia, love can flow in many forms. The gods wish mortals luck in finding their matches. But if necessary, don't be afraid—for Pandora will destroy love when it becomes a poison.
Today, however, love isn't poison. It's a lavender and cherry cookie with a note you don't even know exists.