I open my eyes halfway. My hand automatically starts searching for my phone in the wrinkled depths of the bed. When I finally find it, the screen brightness cuts straight into my retinas. 6:15. Saturday.

I roll over, punch the pillow into shape, negotiate with myself that I'm going back to sleep - because on a day off, sleep is a basic right. Twenty minutes later I'm watching YouTube videos, hoping some brain-dead kids' vlog will put me under. The fifth one does.

When I open my eyes again, it's noon. Well done, Bernadett. You woke up at dawn, and now you've slept through half the day. Applause.

I climb out of bed. My hair is standing in every direction as usual, and my mood matches. I start the coffee maker. The morning routine is sacred: two shots of black, a splash of oat milk, three cigarettes, and the most important ingredient: a pinch of contempt for the world.

I shuffle to the fridge, open the freezer, and stare into it as if the meaning of life might be in there. Spoiler: it`s not. Half a bag of frozen peas, an ice tray, and a lemon with a questionable past. Great. No food. Just me, the fridge, and the society I'll have to walk into if I want to eat.

It occurs to me that since I'm already dragging myself out of my warm, quiet, empty apartment, I might as well go to the gym.

Not thin, but at least I'm tall, and the extra weight distributes itself across me the way bad decisions distribute themselves across a lifetime. My jawline received notably generous attention during construction, but the rest is roughly proportional. I work out because otherwise I fall apart.

Shower, gym kit, bag. Motivation - seriously questionable - but everything's there.

I walked into the gym. Surprisingly, there are no five high school classes there, and there's even air to breathe. I go to the locker room, pull on my gear, lock the bag, set the playlist, and go out to train.

During breaks I look around and spot a strange pair: a tall, fuller girl and a short, thin guy. You can tell it's their first time here. If they start randomly pressing things on the machines, someone's going to get hurt.

Naturally, they sit down right next to me. At the leg press.

The girl is trying to set up the machine but it's too low for her; the guy is standing over her trying to help with his hands. Brilliant duo. When I see the oil heating up for two pancakes, I jump up. The weight snaps back from under me like a gunshot, but at least nobody gets injured.

I'm not the only one who rushes over.

A man appears too. The kind you don't ask yourself to look at, and yet you do. Tall, but not the typical pretty-boy type. More like the kind your body reacts to before your brain catches up. Hair black, unstyled, pushed back by hand. Temples grey - not the kind that ages you, the kind that makes you dangerously attractive. His eyes don't ask questions. They just assess.

I feel my stomach tighten for a moment, my legs shift into standby. Ready to run. Or attack.

I hang back at first and watch Superman give instructions to the guy. When I see what they're actually trying to do, I laugh internally, then step in and take the guy's place before the machine crushes someone. I walk the girl through what she needs to do before the press turns her into a pancake. It works.

I'm turning back to my training when someone touches my shoulder. I turn around. It's our hero. The black-haired, slightly grey, slightly too self-assured man. His mouth is moving but I can't hear anything over the music.

I pull out one earbud. He smiles.

- Nice save - he tries again. - Where do the reflexes come from? What do you do?

His voice is deep, slightly hoarse.

- I draw.

- So it's instinct. I envy you. I had to train for that.

- And what do you do? - I ask politely, just to keep up the appearance of a conversation.

- I'm a pilot.

Bingo. Another one who looks down on people from altitude - in this case, not just figuratively. Of course he's a pilot.

- Nice - I say pleasantly.

Aviation was never far from my life growing up. I was raised partly around helicopters. My dad drove fuel tankers, then worked as a helicopter mechanic.

- Can't complain - I add.

- Neither can you. Making a living from drawing isn't boring.

- I'm in creative. Advertising, marketing. Some days my brain explodes. Some days I do.

- So you're the one selling the world its illusions?

- And you're the one flying ahead of them.

His face slowly opens up. His eyes are black. Not brown. Black. Like coffee you forgot to filter.

- Do you like flying? - he asks.

- I love the world of aviation.

- Why?

- You'll laugh. The protocols. I love the protocols. Some kind of bizarre fetish.

- You love the protocols? That's a new one.

- My life is chaos. It's good to see that somewhere else, the rules actually work.

We talk a little longer, then his phone rings. He glances at it, declines the call.

- We could continue this - he says. - Can I get your contact details?

- If the universe wants it too, we'll run into each other again. My mother always warned me about strangers.

I turn around grinning and head back to my training.

- Until next time then, stranger! - he calls after me.

- Bye! - I throw back automatically.

I cursed myself out a little for being approached on this magnificent day. Then my brain recalibrates. What were you thinking, Bernadett? That you're some kind of irresistible femme fatale?

I finish the workout in a bad mood, shower, and head home. Or rather - not home. Grocery store first. Then cooking. Saturday night. Alone.

Bernadett, the social hermit.