The world unfolded like origami in reverse.
What had been flat became dimensional. What had been still began to pulse with secret rhythms. The bluebonnets—not purple bonnets, she'd corrected him earlier with that half-smile that made something flutter behind his ribs—stretched endlessly in waves of violet fire. Each flower head nodded in conversations he could almost hear, ancient conspiracies whispered in frequencies just beyond his reach.
Richard had stopped trying to track time. The sun hung suspended like honey dripping from a spoon, and every breath felt deliberate, sacred. The LSD had crept through his system like warm water filling a bathtub, dissolving the edges of everything he thought he knew about being alive.
Zin lay beside him, spinning that apple core between fingers that caught light like prisms. Her sundress had shifted, revealing the tattoo of a crescent moon that seemed to pulse against her thigh. Everything about her glowed—the copper threads in her hair, the way her lips moved when she hummed songs he didn't recognize, the effortless way she existed in her own skin while he spent most days feeling like he was wearing a costume that didn't quite fit.
He was falling. Not the pharmaceutical kind of falling—though reality was definitely sliding sideways like a photograph slipping off a table. This was the other kind. The kind that made his stomach drop and his hands shake and his brain cycle through every possible way this perfect moment could shatter.
Six hours ago he'd been sitting in his Honda Civic outside Whole Foods, checking his watch and rehearsing conversation starters. Khakis. Actual khakis. And a polo shirt from Target that still had fold lines across the chest. He'd googled "what to wear on a first date" like some teenager.
Then she'd texted that morning: *Change of plans. Let's skip the restaurant. I'll bring provisions.*
Provisions. Who said provisions? People who knew things he didn't, apparently. People who showed up barefoot with mason jars of homemade lemonade and actual honest-to-god apple pie that tasted like childhood summers he'd never had.
After they'd eaten and the wine had made him bold enough to laugh at her stories about hitchhiking through Oregon, she'd pulled out a small piece of paper decorated with tiny cartoon suns.
"Ever done acid?" she'd asked, holding it up to catch the light.
His first instinct had been to say no. To make excuses. To be the responsible project manager who showed up to work Monday morning with no interesting stories to tell. But something in her voice—not challenging, just curious—made him want to be braver than he was.
"I've never done anything like that."
"I figured." She'd studied his face. "You apologize when you don't need to. And you keep checking your phone like you're expecting someone to text you, but no one ever does."
The observation had hit like cold water. "That's not—"
"It's not a judgment," she'd said, reaching over to touch his wrist. "It just means you haven't learned to disappoint people yet."
And somehow, in that field of bluebonnets with the Texas sky stretching infinite above them, he'd said yes. Said yes to Lucy and to Zin and to the possibility that maybe he could be someone worth disappointing.
Now the drug was singing in his blood and every blade of grass looked hand-painted by someone who understood the secret language of green. He turned his head to look at her—a movement that felt like it took hours—and found her watching him with those eyes that shifted color depending on the light.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, and her voice sounded like it was coming from inside his chest.
"I'm thinking I've never felt this way about anyone. And I've only known you for seven hours."
She didn't laugh. Didn't look away. Just nodded like this made perfect sense.
"Tell me something real," she said. "Not the resume version."
So he did. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. About being twenty-nine and feeling like he was still waiting for his actual life to start. About working at Precision Manufacturing Solutions—a company with a name that sounded important but mostly made parts for other companies that made parts for other companies.
"I don't build anything," he said, watching a cloud that looked exactly like a dragon. "I just make sure other people don't fuck up their schedules. That's my whole career. Professional fuck-up prevention."
She laughed, and the sound made the flowers around them shimmer.
"I've been on maybe twelve real dates in my entire life," he continued. "And this is already the best one."
"What made the others terrible?"
He thought about it. The divorced teacher who'd spent two hours explaining why her ex-husband was a narcissist. The marketing coordinator who'd checked Instagram fourteen times during appetizers. The nurse who'd been perfectly nice but looked at him like he was a math problem she couldn't solve.
"They weren't terrible. They were just... expected. Like we were both reading from the same boring script."
"How did you find me?" she asked.
"Hinge." He immediately felt stupid for being so literal. "I'd been on there for eight months. Got maybe three matches that turned into actual conversations. Then your profile showed up and I spent twenty minutes trying to think of something clever to say."
"What did you come up with?"
His cheeks heated. "I asked about that butterfly mural in your photos."
"Smooth."
"It wasn't. But you answered anyway. I couldn't figure out why someone like you was even responding to someone like me."
She was quiet for a moment, twirling that flower between her fingers. The petals seemed to pulse with their own internal light.
"Want to know something?" she said finally.
He nodded.
"I almost didn't message you back. Your profile was so... earnest. Like someone's little brother trying to figure out how dating works."
The words stung, but her tone was gentle.
"So why did you?"
"Because my friend David said I had two choices. Keep waiting for some perfect guy who doesn't exist, or give someone real a chance." She paused, and something shifted in her expression. "He picked you."
"He picked me?"
"I told him to scroll through my matches and point at someone. Anyone. Said I'd go out with whoever he chose." She started to smile, but it cracked halfway across her face. The laugh that followed sounded hollow, almost bitter. "You were lucky number seven."
She turned away then, focusing on the apple core like it contained the secrets of the universe. But he caught it—the way her shoulders tensed, the slight tremor in her voice. She was protecting something too.
Richard felt the familiar weight of disappointment settling in his chest. Of course. Even his best day was just a random selection. But before he could spiral completely, something in her posture stopped him—the way she'd turned away, the vulnerability hidden in that bitter laugh.
"Hey," she said, glancing back at him and catching his expression. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut down on me. I can see you building walls."
He sat up, the movement making the world tilt sideways. "Can you blame me? You literally had your friend pick someone at random."
"Richard." Her voice was gentler now, more careful. "That's not the whole story."
"Sounds like the important part."
She sat up too, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked uncertain. Fragile, even. The mask of casual confidence had slipped completely.
"Look, David didn't make me do anything. He just... he gave me permission to stop being so fucking scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Of hoping for something real." The words came out quieter, more raw than before. "Of dating another guy who thinks caring about anything is uncool. Of wasting another Saturday pretending to be interested in someone's blockchain theories."
She gestured around them, at the endless field of flowers and sky that seemed to pulse with shared heartbeat.
"Look where we are. Look what we're doing. Does this feel random to you?"
The drug wouldn't let him lie, not to her and not to himself. And looking at her now—really looking—he could see the fear behind her eyes that matched his own.
"No," he admitted.
"I could have suggested coffee at Starbucks. Could have played it safe like every other first date. Instead I brought you here and gave you acid and I'm telling you things I don't usually tell people."
"Like what?"
She was quiet for a long moment, looking out over the field. When she spoke, her voice was softer, more vulnerable than he'd heard before.
"Like the fact that I'm tired of pretending to be mysterious. Or that I haven't been genuinely excited about someone in over a year. Or that watching you try to figure out what's real and what's the drug is the most honest thing I've seen in months."
She turned back to him, and he could see something unguarded in her face.
"You want to know why David picked you? It wasn't random. I showed him your profile and he said you looked like someone who still believed in things. Someone who hadn't figured out how to be jaded yet." She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "He said you looked like someone worth the risk."
"What risk?"
"Of actually caring. Of letting someone matter."
The sun was getting lower now, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The bluebonnets seemed to glow from within, each flower a tiny star in an earthbound constellation.
"I don't really have friends," he said suddenly. "I mean, I have people I talk to. There's this group chat with guys from a fantasy football league. But they all went to college together. They have all these inside jokes and references I don't get. I just laugh when they laugh and hope it's at the right time."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is. They're not mean or anything. Danny from work got me into the league because they needed someone to replace a guy who moved. But I can tell I'm not really part of it. I'm just... filling a slot."
He looked at her, this beautiful, complicated person who'd somehow ended up here with him.
"I've never told anyone that before."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me sound pathetic. Like I can't even maintain basic friendships."
"Or like you haven't found your people yet."
The phrase hit him somewhere deep in his chest. Your people. Like such a thing existed. Like somewhere out there was a group of humans who would get his references and laugh at his jokes and genuinely want him around.
"I spend most Friday nights playing video games alone," he said. "RPGs mostly. Story-driven stuff where I can get lost in other worlds for a while."
"Makes sense."
The simple acceptance in her voice surprised him. Most people either changed the subject or made jokes about living in basements.
"Does it?"
"Yeah. If this world isn't working for you, why not try a different one?"
She said it so simply, like his coping mechanisms weren't embarrassing habits but perfectly logical responses to an illogical situation.
"What about you?" he asked. "What do you do when you want to escape?"
"This," she said, gesturing around them. "I go places where I can't get cell service and remember that the world is bigger than whatever's making me anxious."
She paused, then added more quietly, "And sometimes I pick random guys from dating apps and see if they're brave enough to fall down rabbit holes with me."
"Is that what this is? A rabbit hole?"
"The best kind."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the light change and the flowers sway in the breeze that felt like it was breathing with them. The LSD was reaching its peak now, and everything felt significant and connected and impossibly beautiful.
"Zin?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this. For changing plans. For the acid. For not making me feel like a charity case."
She squeezed his hand, and her touch sent electricity up his arm.
"Thank you for saying yes. To all of it." She turned to look at him, eyes soft and serious. "For letting me see who you really are."
He wanted to kiss her then, but something held him back. Maybe it was the drug making him hyperaware of every sensation and possibility. Or maybe it was the fear that if he moved too fast, this perfect day would reveal itself to be just another disappointment waiting to happen.
Instead, he lay back down in the flowers and let himself fall deeper into the experience, into the moment, into the terrifying possibility that maybe—just maybe—someone like her could see something worth keeping in someone like him.
The field breathed around them, alive and infinite and full of secrets. The sun painted everything gold and amber and impossible. And for the first time in his twenty-nine years, Richard felt like he might be exactly where he was supposed to be.
"I'm scared," he said to the sky.
"Good," she said, taking his hand. "That means it matters."
