SHANEL

My name is Shanel. I’ve promised my friends that I will never get married unless I’m successful and financially stable. I’m 29 years old, and so far, that promise is looking less like a life goal and more like a highly effective anti-marriage strategy.

I’m struggling on two fronts: financially and mentally.

Mentally, because like in many traditional families, my mother is arranging my marriage to a complete stranger. And as someone who spends an unhealthy amount of time watching crime stories on YouTube, my brain has helpfully concluded that every stranger is either a serial killer, a con artist, or both. While everyone else sees a potential husband, I see the opening scene of a true-crime documentary.

Financially, because I’m a self-proclaimed writer. If you know anything about writers, you know that "financial stability" is often treated as a plot twist rather than a character trait. My bank account currently has the suspense, mystery, and emptiness of an unfinished novel.

At this point, my love life is waiting for my career to succeed, and my career is waiting for inspiration to strike. Meanwhile, my mother is waiting for both of them to stop wasting her time.

April 18, 2025 – Lipton Publishing House)

“Your work lacks emotion,” said the publisher.

“What do you mean?” asked Shanel.

“The girl left the boy, and the boy cried so hard he produced enough mucus to fill a small swimming pool in Chapter 11!”

“Well, try harder,” said the publisher.

Shanel stared at him.

The publisher stared back.

Neither blinked.

Finally, the publisher sighed.

“Bring it back when it hurts my feelings.”

“Please,” said Shanel. “I'm sure the public would love it.”

“You know a book can only have one first publication.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It isn't.”

“Fine,” Shanel grumbled. “There are plenty of publishers out there.”

“Yes.”

“One of them will recognize my talent.”

“Possibly.”

“Unlike you.”

“Goodbye, Shanel.”

“Farewell, enemy of literature.”

(Outside the Publishing Office)

“Great. I forgot my umbrella.”

Rain hammered the pavement.

“Wonderful. The universe rejected my manuscript and followed up with weather-based bullying.”

A man with long hair and a long beard stood beside her under the shelter.

Five minutes later, he suddenly sprinted into the rain.

Shanel watched him leave.

Why?

There was no bus.

No emergency.

No tiger.

Just rain.

Then she noticed the moss-covered stairs.

He's going to slip.

Three seconds later, he did.

A magnificent full-body slip.

It looked professionally choreographed.

The man stood up, brushed off his pants, and continued running as if public humiliation was part of his daily exercise routine.

You couldn't wait five more minutes?

(One Hour Later – Shanel's Home)

“It’s the worst day ever.”

First, rejected by a publisher.

Second, attacked by weather.

Third—

“Maybe YouTube will heal me.”

She picked up her phone.

Wuk. Wuk. Wuk.

SMACK.

A flying slipper launched across the room with sniper-level accuracy.

The phone flew from her hand.

“WHO THREW THAT?!”

“I did,” said her mother from the doorway.

“Why?”

“I worked all day at the shop while you sit here scrolling on your phone.”

“I got home thirty seconds ago.”

“That's thirty seconds too many.”

“For many years, I've been searching for a suitable husband for you,” her mother proudly announced. “And tomorrow, I've finally found one.”

Shanel nearly swallowed her own tongue.

“A WHAT?”

“A husband.”

“You found one?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean where?”

“Like was he on sale? Did you use coupons?”

(Flashback)

The door opened.

Ayumi's father stood there wearing a vest, short pants, and enough alcohol fumes to power a small aircraft.

“Come in,” he said.

The smell hit Shanel immediately.

Good Lord.

I think the walls are drunk too.

She sat down.

“You know,” he said, already crying, “I've never told this story to anyone.”

That was a lie.

Two hours later he was still telling it.

For the fourth time.

Shanel had heard the entire story so often she felt qualified to write the sequel.

Eventually he fell asleep mid-sentence.

The snoring started immediately.

A few minutes later Ayumi walked in.

“Why are you here?”

“I came to surprise you.”

“Well, congratulations. You surprised my father into giving you his autobiography.”

(Phone Call)

Shanel: My mom found me a suitor.

Ayumi: A scooter?

Shanel: No. A suitor.

Ayumi: A shooter?!

Shanel: WHY WOULD MY MOM FIND ME A SHOOTER?

Ayumi: Hold on! Dad's singing again!

In the background:

“LOOOOOOVE HURTS—”

CRASH

Ayumi: Dad fell off the chair.

Shanel: Is he okay?

Ayumi: He says the chair attacked first.

Shanel: Fair enough.

Later...

Ayumi: Will you come tomorrow?

Ayumi: Of course. I'll be there.

Shanel: Thank you. What are best friends for?

Ayumi: Emotional support.

Shanel: Did you hear me smile?

Ayumi: Yes.

Shanel: Is that possible?

Ayumi: Unfortunately.

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