So here's the thing about "fresh starts."
They sound cute on Pinterest boards and in job rejection emails.
In practice?
They look like me: sweaty, broke, and one cardboard box away from a full-blown public crisis.
My new apartment smelled like dust and broken dreams. The floor was covered in boxes labeled things like "Kyoto Stuff" and "Work Junk." I wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my hoodie and glared at the mess like it had personally wronged me.
"Fucking hell," I muttered. "New city, new me, same old chaos. I'm one box away from being featured on Hoarders: Otaku Edition."
With a grunt of pain and probably a hernia, I dropped the final box onto the floor. The label read:
TAX RECEIPTS 2017–2022.
"Last box…" I wheezed.
I cracked the lid open… and was immediately greeted by my… coughs um, collection.
Manga collection.
But not the normal kind. No sir.
This was full-on, blushing-in-the-aisle-at-Mandarake-level filth. Spines glittering with foil titles. Covers cursed enough to get me arrested in at least three countries.
Right on top, front and center, like the horny crown jewel she was:
"One Isn't Enough Anymore – Vol. 137."
With the tasteful cover featuring two men and a woman in an even more tasteful position, all glistening with questionable fluids.
But the real kicker? Tucked beside it, "My Stepbrother's Forbidden Dungeon – Vol. 43" stared back at me, its cover promising a plot so unhinged I felt my soul leave my body just looking at it.
My eyes lit up like Christmas. I swear I heard angels. Or maybe demons. I reached for One Isn't Enough, my fingers trembling with a mix of pride and shame.
"Oh my god, I missed you," I whispered, clutching it to my chest. "My sweet little perverted son… you're home now."
I was two seconds from kissing the cover when—
DING DONG.
I screamed. Out loud. Like a dying cat.
SLAM.
I smacked the box shut so hard I nearly broke a nail. A few manga flew out, fluttering across the room like traumatized pigeons. My Stepbrother's Forbidden Dungeon slid under the couch in dramatic, slow-motion shame.
FLAP! THUD!
I stood frozen, heart racing, hands trembling, looking like a raccoon caught elbow-deep in a trash bin.
"Jesus Christ," I hissed.
Who the hell rings the doorbell on a weekday afternoon?! Was it the landlord? A Jehovah's Witness? The feds? Did someone report my manga stash already?
No. Focus. Play it cool, Sana. You are a normal human woman.
I took a deep breath, wiping the panic-sweat off my face with my sleeve. My heart was still doing backflips, but I forced myself to shuffle toward the door, muttering, "Probably some suburban mom trying to give me cookies and Jesus. Ugh. So sneaky."
I straightened my hoodie, smoothed my hair, and grabbed the doorknob with what little dignity I had left.
I opened the door, ready to fake a smile—
And instantly forgot how to function as a human being.
The sunlight framed a tall silhouette like it's a goddamn shampoo commercial.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Standing in the doorway was an unfairly attractive man.
Early thirties. Tousled dark hair. Slight beard. Muscles under a plain white tee. Tattoo peeking from under the sleeve. Holding… a whiskey bottle? Offering it to me with a… HOLD ON A GODDAMN SECOND… is that a ring on his finger?!
What is this, a ridiculous rom-com cliché?!
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," I blurted out.
"Excuse me?" The man said, slightly shocked, with a soft chuckle.
Of course you have a ragged, sexy voice like that. Of course you do.
"Ah, sorry, nothing. Is that for me?"
"Yes, it is." He smiled warmly, then added with a playful squint, "I'm a whiskey man myself, but I figured anyone moving in with that many boxes deserves a drink. Or a medal."
"Thank you!" I took the bottle from him, gripping it like it was the Holy Grail.
He leaned against the doorframe, his testosterone-filled hands casually tucked into his pockets. I stood there awkwardly, clutching the whiskey bottle like it was my only hope of surviving this moment. My brain screamed: What now? Invite him in? That's a porn script. Abort!
Think, think, think, Sana. Don't do something stupid.
I glanced at him, then down at the whiskey, wondering if I could get away with pretending to be a connoisseur.
"So… uh, should I offer you a drink, or…?" I said, trying to sound casual but definitely sounding like I'd never touched alcohol in my life.
"I think I'll pass," he said with a grin, eyes glinting mischievously. "But if you need anything else—say, a hand with those boxes or a guide to the best dive bar—I'm just down the hall."
Of course you are.
"You're, uh, not the landlord, are you?" I asked, suddenly suspicious, like he was going to start reading me a script about paying my rent or whatever.
He chuckled again, and I could practically see the inner movie montage happening in his head.
"No, not the landlord. Just your friendly neighborhood married guy with a whiskey bottle."
I blinked. "Oh. Right. Cool."
The awkward silence stretched.
He didn't move. I didn't breathe. My brain? Completely fried.
Say something, Sana.
"Um… thanks for the whiskey," I blurted, clutching it like a socially anxious gremlin hoarding treasure.
He smiled. "Anytime."
Anytime?! What does that mean?! Is that like "friendly neighbor anytime" or "hot married man who is way out of your league and probably has a motorcycle" anytime?!
"I… uh…" I panicked. My tongue flailed. My brain flipped through responses like it was spinning a roulette wheel of bad ideas.
What came out was:
"So… you must really like whiskey."
…What.
He tilted his head slightly, amused. "I do. Thought you might, too."
"Oh. Y-yeah. Totally. Big… whiskey… fan."
(You've had exactly one sip once and almost cried.)
Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and handed me a small key.
"For when you lock yourself out," he said, smiling that calm, devastating smile like he hadn't just dropped a rom-com-level bomb on me.
"Oh." I stared at it like it was a live grenade. "Th-thank you."
"See you around, Sana."
I watched him walk away down the hall, muscles doing… things under that plain white T-shirt.
Once the door clicked shut behind me, I very calmly said:
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
I slid to the floor like a puddle of embarrassment, the whiskey bottle still in my hands like a trophy from a fever dream.
"Oh my god," I whispered, covering my face. "You absolute disgrace. You talked about whiskey like a loser. He gave you a key. A key. This is not a drill. Hot Husband-san just gave you neighbor privileges."
I crawled toward the couch, My Stepbrother's Forbidden Dungeon still peeking out from under it like it, too, had witnessed the trauma.
I grabbed it and hugged it to my chest.
"At least you still understand me," I whispered. "Unlike my social skills."
My face was still on fire. My hands were shaking. But at least I survived.
I took a deep breath.
And then…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
I froze.
OMG HE'S BACK. HE'S BACK TO HAVE ME RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.
I shuffled to the door like a nervous little grandma and peeked through the peephole.
There, standing with two giant duffel bags and a cocky smirk, was the guy from the roommate ad.
Phew… it's not him. Just normal life.
He knocked again, louder this time.
"Hey," he said through the door. "This the part where I pretend I'm not insanely late and you pretend you're not regretting your life choices already?"
I just stood there, whispering to myself:
"…I'm gonna die here."