Milk Tea and Misery
The two of them walked side by side down the hot sidewalk—Eason in his wrinkled pajamas, hair still molded into a grotesque pineapple, and Cecilia in a clean white tee and denim shorts, fresh from a casual shopping stroll.
“I can’t believe you actually agreed to get bubble tea with me,” Eason said, his voice a mix of disbelief and hunger.
“Well,” Cecilia replied, “you’ve been messaging me non-stop since graduation. I figured you’d keep going until I said yes.”
They arrived at the corner milk tea shop and sat at one of the cheap plastic tables outside. Eason plopped down with a sigh, his shirt lifting to reveal his stomach.
He stared at her for a moment.
“You look… normal,” he said. “I mean, like, healthy. Alive.”
Cecilia blinked. “Okay.”
“Me?” He chuckled, pointing at himself. “I’m still in the same PJs I wore three nights ago. Haven’t even washed my hair. Still got the pineapple. You remember this?”
“Unfortunately,” she said flatly.
There was a brief silence as the shopkeeper handed them their drinks. Eason took a long slurp, then leaned in across the table, eyes glinting.
“You know… I really miss those two little leaves from yoga class…”
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“The ones that were taped to your body?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded too fast. “The way they barely covered anything… I swear, I could see the edge… like the edge of something pink. Just a little blur, a little sparkle. It was like watching a butterfly land on a cherry blossom…”
“Stop talking.”
“I’m just saying. Those were sacred leaves.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m honest.”
Trying to pivot, Eason took another sip, then asked:
“You hear about Mr. Moonly?”
Cecilia’s tone softened a bit. “Yeah… the Empire State Building thing.”
“He didn’t die, though,” Eason said. “They say he’s in the ICU. Total vegetable. They keep him on Celine Dion loop—like on repeat.”
“Does he react?”
“Apparently when the violin part hits, he twitches a little. Like he’s remembering the jump.”
They both went quiet for a moment.
“He was a weirdo,” Cecilia finally said.
“But inspirational,” Eason added. “I mean, who else jumps off a skyscraper in boxers and survives?”
Another beat of silence. Eason stared into his drink.
“Can I ask you something real?”
Cecilia looked cautious. “What?”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” He smiled weakly. “I haven’t. Never even had a girlfriend. Not a hug, not a kiss. Nothing. Sometimes I stare at my hand and say ‘thank you’ out loud.”
Cecilia visibly recoiled.
Eason leaned forward, eyes low.
“I want to feel something. Just once. Sleep with me, then dump me. Wreck me. Please.”
Cecilia stood up.
“I should go.”
Eason half-stood too, his hand reaching across the table.
“Come on—just once, I won’t tell anyone. Just once. Please—”
But she was already backing away, fast-walking toward the crowd.
“Wait, wait! Don’t leave so fast! Just once! Please—”
Cecilia vanished into the moving sea of strangers.
Eason stood alone, clutching his milk tea like a life raft. He took a long slurp—and immediately gagged.
The straw was clogged.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered.
Bubble Tea and Tears
Eason walked alone.
Still in his pajamas. Still with that pineapple-shaped mess on his head.
The day was sunny, but his heart was soggy.
In his hand—half-finished bubble tea. In his chest—half-finished dignity.
He stopped by a bench, slowly sat down like an old man with back pain, and stared at nothing. His reflection warped in the side of the bubble tea cup.
“Why…” he whispered.
A fat tapioca ball rose through the straw and smacked the roof of his mouth. He didn’t even flinch.
His eyes were blank. But inside—a slideshow of personal failure.
High School.
He remembered trying to talk to a girl in biology class. Just a simple “Hey.”
She glanced up, looked him up and down like he was a broken vending machine, then scooted her chair an inch away.
He remembered holding the door for another girl once. She didn’t say thanks. She just gave him a look like:
“Why are you even breathing near me?”
He wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t even loud. Just… awkward.
He thought being nice would help. He watched other guys joke with girls, touch their arms, get smiles and giggles in return.
So he tried it.
One time he said:
“That shirt looks good on you.”
And the girl replied:
“Okay. Gross.”
That night, he Googled “Am I ugly?” for the first time.
Then every week after that.
He stared into the melting ice of his cup.
“Why do they never talk to me like they talk to other guys?”
“I try. I really try.”
His face twitched.
“Do I smell? Is it the pineapple hair? Or maybe I was just born… cursed?”
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Then realized the sleeve still had dried toothpaste from that morning.
Even his own clothes rejected him.
A passing girl walked by with her friend. They glanced at him—then quickly looked away.
“See?” he muttered.
“They always look away. I’m not even scary.”
He took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself.
Then whispered:
“Maybe I was never meant to be loved.”
Another tapioca got stuck in the straw. He tried to suck. It didn’t budge.
He sucked harder.
Still stuck.
“Figures,” he said, shaking the cup.
“Even this drink’s trying to ghost me.”
He looked up at the sky. Clear. Cloudless.
Nothing like his mind.
Then, as if on cue, a single leaf drifted from a tree branch nearby.
It was green. Slightly curved. Just like the ones Cecilia once wore.
“Damn… I miss those leaves,” he murmured.
“That soft edge… that pink blush…”
He stared at the leaf for a long time.
Then whispered:
“I should’ve been born as a leaf. At least then someone would’ve worn me.”
He took one last sip of his tea.
The tapioca finally shot up—too fast—and choked him again.
He coughed violently, eyes watering.
Then muttered, to no one in particular:
“Fuck my life.”
And with that, he slouched forward, slurped the final bits of tea, and let the city pass by him like he wasn’t even there.
Just one more loser in pajamas, sitting in the sun.
Just Once… Please?
A quiet street. Faint city hum.
Eason wandered aimlessly, sipping on a half-finished milk tea, his mind drifting nowhere.
That’s when he noticed something strange in the alley up ahead.
A man was pressing himself against a woman—close, aggressive, and way too familiar. Her office uniform was slightly wrinkled, her expression tense. It was Toilet Girl—not someone Eason personally knew, but a local face in the area. A regular.
“Hey! Get the hell off her!”
Eason surprised even himself with the shout. But his body moved before his brain could stop him. He lunged forward and punched the man square in the cheek.
A scrappy fight broke out. Neither of them was strong—but Eason fought like a maniac. After a few wild minutes, both of them were bruised, breathless, and bloody. But somehow, Eason stood while the other guy backed off, cursing, and disappeared into the shadows.
Toilet Girl stood frozen in place, shocked.
Later, the two of them ended up at a nearby bubble tea shop. She insisted on buying him a drink to say thank you. Eason, still sore and limping, sat across from her in a quiet booth.
The two didn’t speak much at first. Then Eason broke the silence.
“Y’know… I’ve never dated anyone.”
He stirred his drink slowly, his gaze lowered.
“Back in school, I used to try being nice to girls. Really nice. Polite, respectful… But all I got was, ‘Get lost, loser.’ Every time.”
His fingers tightened around the cup.
“I see other guys just joke around, tease a little, suddenly girls are laughing and leaning in. I try the same thing, and I get death stares. Like… is it my face? My voice? Am I that disgusting?”
Toilet Girl looked a little uncomfortable but said nothing.
Eason leaned in slightly.
“So… can you be my girlfriend?”
Toilet Girl blinked.
“Eason… I’m really grateful. You saved me. I won’t forget that. But… you’re not really my type. I’m sorry.”
There was a pause.
Eason forced a smile. Then that smile cracked. And from behind it, something desperate peeked through.
“Okay… then just once?”
Toilet Girl narrowed her eyes, confused.
“Just once… what?”
He gulped, looked down, and muttered:
“Y’know. Have sex. Just once. I won’t tell anyone, I promise…”
The air froze solid.
Toilet Girl’s tone didn’t rise. She didn’t lash out. She just stood up, took a breath, and said:
“You’re a good person, Eason. What you did for me tonight… I won’t forget it.”
She grabbed her purse.
“If there’s ever something you need help with—anything I can do, within reason—I’ll do my best. But not this. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”
She turned and walked out of the shop. Her heels clicked against the tile floor and vanished into the crowd outside.
Eason sat alone. His straw bent from too much chewing. He took one last frustrated sip.
But the straw was blocked.
He stared down.
“…fuck my life.”
The Reporter, the Bar, and the Old Man
The bar was dim, shadows crawling across the shelves of half-empty bottles. Eason sat alone at the counter, hunched over a watered-down whiskey like it was the last warmth left in the world.
He had just been rejected again. Another “you’re a good person, but…” moment. His expression was blank, drained, like a cartoon character left in the rain too long.
That’s when she walked in.
A flash of yellow. Ripped jeans. Dangly earrings. A touch too much makeup, smeared slightly under the eyes. Vanessa. The local TV news reporter—recognizable even from behind a tequila bottle.
She dropped onto the stool beside him and slapped her hand on the counter.
“Two shots of tequila. Fast.”
The bartender didn’t ask questions.
Vanessa downed one, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and muttered:
“Just got dumped. That asshole didn’t even say a word.”
Eason blinked.
“Same.”
Vanessa finally glanced at him—really looked at him—and gave a half-snort of amusement. Then she sighed, almost to herself:
“I don’t wanna be alone tonight. I don’t even care who. I just need… somebody.”
Eason hesitated.
Then said softly, “What about me?”
Vanessa smiled.
“Sure. Why not.”
Eason’s eyes widened. His lips twitched like he didn’t believe it.
But then—Vanessa looked him up and down. From his fraying jacket to his thrift-store sneakers. Her smile faltered. Her eyes squinted a little.
Then she leaned back and shook her head.
“Actually… no. Sorry. You’re not my type.”
Eason felt like the floor gave out under him.
“Please…” he whispered. “Just once. I’ve never… done it before. One time. I swear, I’ll die with no regrets.”
Vanessa’s face tightened.
“Okay, wow. You’re really creeping me out now.”
She waved her hand, pushing her barstool back.
“No offense, but I’m done talking to you, boy.”
She turned away just as the door creaked open.
In walked an old man.
Silver hair. Velvet vest. Gold rings on fingers that curled like dried tree branches. He didn’t look rich—but he looked… seasoned. Like a retired mafia don who still carried power in every measured step.
He took a seat at the bar, ordered a whiskey.
Vanessa’s eyes lit up.
“Well, hello there, silver fox.”
She slid down to his side. Within seconds, the two were laughing like old friends. Her hand touched his arm. His voice was deep and calm.
A few minutes later, they left together—smiling, chatting, heading off into the night.
Eason watched them disappear into the city lights.
He looked down at his drink, melted ice floating like broken dreams.
He whispered to himself:
“She’d rather sleep with death than with me.”
He put the glass down gently. Closed his eyes.
“Fuck my life.”
The Heartless Massage
Eason walked into the so-called massage parlor — the kind with faded curtains and a flickering red light above the door. A cheap sign hung crookedly, printed with peeling letters:
“Full-body relief – Relax to the depths of your soul.”
He drifted in like a ghost, face drawn, eyes hollow. But somewhere, buried deep under the shame and fatigue, was… a glimmer of hope.
Behind the front desk sat a woman with heavy makeup, scrolling her phone without looking up.
“300 to start,” she said flatly. “Extras, you ask. Room’s in the back.”
Eason nodded, didn’t speak. Just handed her the cash and shuffled down the hallway.
The room was dim and cramped. A half-collapsing massage bed stood in the middle. In one corner, a plastic bin overflowed with crumpled tissues. The walls were decorated with torn-up posters of nude women — like a passive-aggressive reminder of what this place really offered.
Eason took off his clothes, wrapped himself in a thin towel, and lay down. Waiting.
A few minutes passed. Then the girl came in.
Young. Pretty, even. Fishnet stockings, short skirt — but her face was dead cold, like a math teacher who hated her job.
She squirted some oil into her hand and spoke without looking at him:
“Basic massage only. Extra 200 for service. Oral only. No kissing. No feelings.”
Eason hesitated. Then he whispered:
“Can I… can I just get a hug? I’m not even here for sex. I just… I feel so lonely.”
She didn’t even pause:
“We don’t offer emotional support.”
He bit his lip. Tried again:
“Maybe just… a kiss on the cheek?”
“No.”
“What about if you sit on top of me and I just… touch your face?”
She stepped back.
“Do you want anything or not? If not, I’m leaving.”
Eason deflated completely.
“No, sorry… I… never mind.”
He got dressed in silence. Walked out of the room, past the desk.
The girl called after him:
“Hey! You didn’t pay for the extras!”
His voice came out like a ghost’s echo from a deep well:
“I didn’t get anything… Why should I pay?”
And with that, he ran.
Out the door. Into the cold, misty evening.
Outside, a light drizzle had started.
He stood on the curb, soaking wet. Eyes blank. Jaw trembling.
That’s when he heard it:
“You can’t run from this.”
He turned.
Michael.
Dressed in all black. Standing in front of the massage parlor like a debt collector from hell. Hands in his pockets. Staring like a butcher who just picked his next slab.
“The boss said 300 isn’t optional,” Michael said. “Bodies don’t get touched for free.”
Eason’s voice cracked:
“I-I didn’t even do anything…”
Michael took one step forward, slow and steady:
“That’s worse. You insulted the professionalism of this establishment.”
And then—
Darkness.
Judgment was coming.
Double-Headed, New Life
The night was dry and still. Not a drop of rain, not even a breeze. Just the soft hum of streetlights and the occasional rumble of a passing car.
Eason stumbled out of the shady massage parlor, pale and defeated. He had hoped for some warmth—any warmth. A little human touch, even if it was fake. But no. Not even that.
He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, his thoughts swirling into smoke—until he heard it.
The sound of leather shoes, clicking steadily on the concrete.
He turned.
Michael.
Dressed the same as always: white shirt, slacks, leather shoes. A black briefcase in hand. Clean. Cold. Unstained by life.
Eason opened his mouth to speak.
Michael didn’t respond.
He stepped forward.
Lifted his hand.
And with a single, swift motion—like a blade through air—he chopped.
Clean decapitation.
Eason’s head dropped like a bowling ball, thudding and rolling across the pavement. His face was frozen in a mix of fear and disbelief.
Michael stood still for a second. Then he calmly wiped his hand, picked up his briefcase, and walked away—his silhouette swallowed by the night.
Blood pooled beneath the body. The street returned to silence.
Minutes passed.
A young man walked by, holding a takeout box from his late shift. He froze when he saw the headless corpse.
He looked around. No one. Just him and the body.
“Shit… someone really got killed.”
He crouched down, pulled out his phone, hesitated.
Muttered to himself:
“Should I… should I call someone? Maybe bring him to the crematory or something? Let him rest in peace?”
He stood there, eyes flicking between the corpse and his phone.
Eventually, he sighed.
“Nah… not my business.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
If that man had done it—if he had brought Eason’s body to be cremated—then it would’ve been over. Forever.
Even the strongest regeneration can’t beat total cremation.
But Eason got lucky.
The body remained untouched.
The blood dried.
The night passed.
And then…
Sometime before dawn—his neck began to twitch.
Muscle.
Bone.
Skin.
Slowly. Painfully. Quietly.
It took the entire night, but by morning—a brand-new head had grown from Eason’s neck.
He gasped.
Sat up, dazed. His limbs trembled. His shirt was soaked with blood and dirt. He looked like a mess dragged out of the grave.
“I… I’m alive? I… why?”
Staggering to his feet, he looked down.
And then he saw it.
His old head.
Lying not far away in a patch of overgrown grass. The expression frozen in shock, lips slightly parted.
Eason stared at it for a while. Blank. Silent.
Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a black plastic grocery bag. Slowly, almost respectfully, he placed the severed head inside and tied the bag shut.
And with that—
He walked off. One hand gripping his bag. One head on his shoulders. Another in his hand.
“All I wanted… was a little love…”
One man. Two heads. A lifetime of absurdity ahead.
Rebirth always comes with a price.