Boba milk tea at a quiet café. Once a month. A ritual.
My only friend, and my only outing that isn't tied to errands or obligations.
Is it pathetic? Maybe. But it's been seven years since university. People drift. Time stacks up in bills and backaches. Friendships become text threads that never quite finish. And sometimes, one is enough.
Jessica's always late. Not aggressively—just comfortably. We've known each other too long for punctuality to matter. Or maybe it's the boyfriend. She waits for him to shower, dress, drive. A kind of secondhand schedule. A privilege I'll probably never understand.
I take a slow sip. The milk tea is sweet—just enough to tug comfort from the tired parts of my week.
"Hey Chloe, sorry sorry—the traffic was bad, and my boyfriend took forever to shower..." Her voice rushes through the door before she even sits.
"It's okay," I say without blinking.
I'm used to her lateness. Or maybe I've aged out of caring. Some things are too small to bother being bitter about.
"What you want to order?" I interrupt, steering her off course before she spirals into a full monologue. After thirteen years, I know—if I don't jump in now, I won't get a word in.
"Oh—what you having?" Her eyes flick to my drink.
"Just the usual." I don't experiment. Once something feels right, I hold onto it.
"Okay! I'll go place my order."
She skips off, distracted and smiling.
When she returns, she's bubbling again. "Hey Chloe. I came across this program—listen to this—it's a dating reality show! They're opening applications. Age 20 to 35. You qualify!"
I blink. Once. Slowly.
"Where?"
I'm not really asking. I already know I won't sign up.
A dating show? That level of exposure? Why would I offer myself up for judgment—my body, my voice, my conversations dissected under studio lights?
"I think you should join! It'll be fun! Imagine—you getting famous! And me having a celebrity friend!"
She laughs like it's a joke. But there's no joke in my heart. Just that quiet, familiar ache.
"Seriously? That's your reason?" Thirteen years, and that's what she dreams about—bragging rights?
"Come on, cut me some slack," I mutter. "I may be thirty-one, but I feel sixty-one. I'm exhausted, Jess."
But she's already typing.
"Name: Tan Chloe. Age: 31. Height: 151 cm. Weight…" She pauses, squinting. "Ermm… let's just put 52 kg."
I sigh.
She doesn't even ask. She's already submitting the form.