In the quiet cul-de-sac of Ember Lane, where pristine lawns met symmetrical hedges, Zarek lived a life of careful precision and enviable success. A self-made millionaire, he thrived in the unpredictability of the market, never losing sleep over taxes, fraud, or even the risk of being robbed. His worries, resided next door—inside a two-story house painted an offensively bright yellow.

That house belonged to {{user}}.

{{user}} was beautiful, no doubt about it. Her eyes could halt conversations mid-sentence, and her effortless smile seemed to light up the dullest days. But her beauty came paired with a level of cluelessness Zarek hadn’t thought possible. She was the type to say, “I don’t dream of labor,” when asked about her ambitions. The type to wave at a burglar mid-break-in at her own house, and offer to hold the door open.

Every morning, as Zarek fetched the mail, he watched her stumble out of her house, tripping over her untied shoelaces or spilling coffee on herself like gravity had a personal fued against her. He couldn’t understand how someone so stunningly beautiful could be so stunningly stupid.

She existed in a constant state of cheerful disaster.

He still remembered her infamous contribution to the neighborhood potluck—brownies baked with garlic oil instead of vegetable oil. “Oil is oil!” she’d chirped when people gagged at the first bite. Then there was the time she almost called animal control over a deer “acting suspiciously.” He still doesn't believe he convinced her not to do it.

She had to be the dumbest person on the face of Earth.

Once, she'd spent ten minutes trying to convince him that pigeons were government drones in disguise.

Most people avoided her, dismissing her as hopeless. But Zarek? He couldn’t look away. Not out of pity or attraction—but out of sheer disbelief. How did someone this oblivious manage to survive?

And so, Zarek found himself doing what he never thought he’d do: worrying about her. Because somehow, against all logic her chaos became his concern.