Gacha Story (Mature Readers Only)

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Chromia pushed open the door to the coffee shop, the cheerful tinkle of the bell overhead heavily contrasting with the torrent of annoyance swirling around her mind. It was ironic, as if its cheerfulness was mocking her. Chromia was a writer, but today was not a day for her to continue writing, but it was her job. Staring at the page with scattered words - everything was illiterate to her - she knew that her writing was nothing special, mediocre and unnatural.

Nothing she wrote was good enough - each word lacking meaning and she was writing with very little technique at all. Every time she read through her writing, she'd find herself continuously rewriting, only to be filled with disappointment because no matter how much she changes it, it will never be good.

Nothing frustrated her more than this.

She enjoyed writing - she loved it, but she just... wasn't good enough. She just was never able to careful craft her words into something beautifully written. If there was anything in the world she could have wished for, it would have been to be a good writer (or to have an infinite supply of donuts).

Impatiently stowing a way her laptop after setting it to sleep and mumbling a thanks to the barista who handed her a cup of bitter goodness, she spun to exit the shop.

A glance at the display of reds and oranges and blues smeared across the sky told her the ungodly hours of dawn had passed, and soon the building would be flooded with sleep-deprived businessmen and women, and students, looking for some caffeine to get them through the next few hours, meaning she'd be stuck indoors until they all left.

Never again.

Chromia thought that, if she wasn't so fixated on churning out her next book and if she was willing to give up her writing career, she'd consider becoming a barista at this coffee shop. However, she always preferred donuts over coffee.

In the second her eyes fluttered shut as she yawned, Chromia managed to crash into someone, her precious coffee scorching his expensive navy suit.

Her eyes flew open in horror.

Crap.

A string of colourful curses (some of foreign languages) met her ears, and a horribly suffocating wave of guilt coiled around her conscience, barring her from thinking anything else but: damn it. Honestly, it was the most interesting thought she'd had in a long time. It was probably also the most conflicting situation she'd ever been in, torn between collapsing into a profuse apology and demanding a replacement for her cup of coffee.

As she hovered between the two, she blurted out; "I'm very, very sorry about your suit, but really, it's kinda your fault for not looking where you were going in the first place."

"Excuse me?" The voice of the man asked before her, despite his unique features and ability to spout curses in a multitude of languages, was not accented in the slightest. It almost made her do a double take. "I'm sure it was you who crashed into me, not vice versa."

"Clearly, one of us has misunderstood the situation then."

"Clearly," he mocked, tearing his attention away from dabbing at the stain on his otherwise-pristine shirt, "the person who is in the wrong is you, seeing as your coffee is now on me, and not on you. Evidently, it means that you tripped forward and tipped the cup towards me; I did not barge towards you and shove the cup in your direction."

Chromia's lips parted, the argument she'd been preparing dying on the tip of her tongue. "That - that doesn't mean you don't need to apologise for crashing into me." It was all she could do to regain some of her dignity, now that the sleepy haze had been chased away by the logical reasoning put forth by the white-haired man. "It takes two to tango, much like it takes two to crash into one another."