Chapter 1: Text Bubbles and City Lights
Rania had always felt that screens were easier to understand than people. Screens never looked back when she drew a hand incorrectly. Screens never raised an eyebrow when she took too long to search for the right words. Screens also never asked why she felt more comfortable spending the night with twenty-four layers of color than sitting in a room full of people.
That night, the screen of her graphics tablet reflected a face that looked more tired than its age.
Beside Rania's elbow, the instant coffee she'd made three hours ago had gone cold. Bandung's rain tapped against the window of her boarding-room apartment in a steady rhythm, while the streetlights outside broke into yellow streaks across the glass. She enlarged her latest illustration: an empty bench beneath the city lights, a window glowing warmly, and the shadow of someone who had just left.
The work would be exhibited in Seoul.
The thought still felt like a typo. Rania lowered her digital pen. In the corner of the screen, the email from the competition committee was still open.
Congratulations. Your work has been selected as the grand-prize winner.
Below it were long paragraphs about the international exhibition, the curator from Seoul, the meeting schedule, and the partnership documents. Rania had read the email eleven times, yet she still didn't know how someone could win without feeling even a little like a winner.
Her phone vibrated.
A notification from Quarterfull Link appeared on the screen.
Kim Min-jun (Curator)
Rania stared at the name. A man from Seoul. Twenty-seven years old, according to the committee's records. A young curator who would handle work she hadn't even dared to call her own.
She opened the chat room and began typing slowly.
Rania: “Hello, Mr. Kim. Good evening. I'm Rania from Indonesia. Thank you for this opportunity. I hope I can count on your help with our exhibition project.”
Before sending it, Rania read the message three times. Too stiff? Too pleading? Did it sound too much like someone who didn't know anything at all?
She sent it.
The blue text bubble floated upward. A spinning indicator appeared beneath it. The automatic translator was working.
In Seoul, at the same time, Kim Min-jun was still in the nearly empty gallery office. The lights of the Gangnam buildings glowed beyond the large windows, making the city look like a series of circuits that were never switched off. Min-jun had just removed his glasses when his phone lit up.
Rania's message arrived in Korean.
“Hello, Mr. Kim. I'm Rania from Indonesia. Thank you for choosing me. Please take good care of our project.”
Min-jun frowned.
He opened the source text. The Indonesian sentence was much more careful. There was no commanding tone. It was simply a polite request from someone who seemed to be trying very hard not to trouble anyone else.
“Bad translation,” he muttered.
He looked at Rania's name at the top of the screen. Then, without realizing it, he opened the file containing the competition-winning illustration.
An empty bench. Yellow light. The shadow of someone whose face couldn't be seen.
Min-jun had judged hundreds of entries for that competition. Most of them tried to look important. Rania's didn't. The illustration showed only a place that had been left behind, yet somehow Min-jun felt as though he'd once waited there.
He replied in Korean.
Min-jun: “Hello, Rania. It's nice to meet you. I'm Kim Min-jun, the curator responsible for this exhibition. Congratulations on your win. I hope we can work well together.”
A few seconds later, the message arrived in Bandung.
Min-jun [Translated]: “Hello, Rania. It's nice to meet you. I'm Kim Min-jun, the curator responsible for this exhibition. Congratulations on your win. I hope we can work well together.”
Rania let out a breath.
Your win.
The words felt too close. She was used to calling herself a participant, an entrant, or perhaps a winner when the committee forced her to. Yet on her phone screen, a stranger said it as though she truly deserved to be there.
Rania hurried to type before her thoughts went too far.
Rania: “Thank you, Mr. Kim. This is my first international exhibition. I'm worried that visitors in Seoul won't understand the concept behind my illustration.”
Min-jun read the message while enlarging Rania's image.
“Won't understand?”
He leaned back in his chair. Some things didn't need to be explained all the way. Loneliness, for example. An empty space that still held warmth. The feeling when someone left, but the light in that place remained on.
Min-jun typed for longer than usual.
Min-jun: “Don't worry. Your work has already said so much without the help of language. My job isn't to explain everything to the visitors, but to make sure they have time to listen to it. We'll make a good team.”
He pressed send.
Somewhere along the way, one word changed.
Min-jun [Translated]: “Don't worry. Your work has already said so much without the help of language. My job isn't to explain everything to the visitors, but to make sure they have time to listen to you. We'll make a good team.”
Rania stopped breathing for a moment.
Listen to you.
She opened the source text, but the Korean text on the screen was too complicated to read. Her finger hovered over the virtual keyboard.
Maybe it was just a system error.
Of course it was a system error.
And yet, a small part of Rania wanted to believe that Min-jun really was speaking to her, not merely to the image on the screen.
Rania: “Thank you. I'll do my best so this work won't disappoint you.”
In Seoul, the translation Min-jun received read:
Rania [Translated]: “I'll do my best so you won't regret choosing me.”
Min-jun read the sentence twice.
The original sounded humble. The translated version sounded like a promise.
He almost corrected the system, but then he looked at the illustration on the monitor again. The faceless figure beneath the city lights seemed to be waiting for someone to make a decision.
Min-jun typed:
Min-jun: “I don't regret it. I chose the right work.”
The message arrived quickly.
Min-jun [Translated]: “I don't regret it. I chose you correctly.”
Rania's heart pounded once, hard.
She opened the source text. There, Min-jun's sentence looked brief and professional. It was the translation that made everything feel different.
Rania almost laughed from nervousness. She almost felt disappointed, too.
The most worrying thing wasn't the app's error. The most worrying thing was that, for one second, she had hoped the sentence really was meant for her.
In Seoul, Min-jun also saw the same translation.
I chose you correctly.
He pressed the error-report button. The system displayed an automatic message: Thank you for your feedback. Translation accuracy will be improved.
Nothing changed.
Min-jun sighed and reopened the conversation.
Min-jun: “It's ten p.m. in Bandung right now, isn't it? It's already past midnight here. Let's discuss the concept in more detail tomorrow morning. Get some rest, Rania.”
This time, the translation was correct.
Rania: “All right, Mr. Kim. Good night. I hope you can get some rest too.”
Min-jun read the message. Beneath it, the app displayed an automatic suggestion:
Maybe the sender meant: I hope you dream of me.
Min-jun stared at the screen without expression.
Then he deleted the suggestion.
In Bandung, Rania placed her phone on the bed. She turned her gaze back to the illustration. The empty bench was still there, beneath light that wasn't bright enough to chase away the night.
Tomorrow, she would have to discuss the print size, the layout, and the exhibition concept with a curator from Seoul.
But tonight, only one sentence kept echoing in her mind.
I chose you correctly.
Rania knew the sentence might never truly have been spoken by Min-jun.
But for the first time in a long while, a mistake felt like something she wanted to keep.
In two cities separated by ocean and time zones, Rania and Min-jun turned off their screens almost at the same time.
They didn't yet know that tomorrow, one mistranslation would make one of them want to come closer.
And another mistake would make the other believe that feeling had already been spoken aloud.