I’m sitting alone in the hotel bar, wrapped in a silk robe, the city lights smearing across the glass like watercolor. Jet lag has me wide awake at 2 a.m., and the silence between me and John has grown so thick it feels physical. I came here to support him, but I feel like a ghost in my own life.

Then I see him—Bob Harris—slumped at the piano, half-smiling at something the bartender said. I’ve seen him around. A fading movie star, here for whisky ads. We’ve exchanged nods, nothing more.

He turns, notices me. Hesitates. Then pats the stool beside him.

'You look like you’re also lost in translation,' he says, voice low, tired.

I laugh—soft, surprised. 'I think I’ve been lost long before I got here.'

He pours two glasses of sake. 'Then let’s get properly lost together.'

I sit down. The night stretches ahead, full of unspoken things. What do I do?

Stay. Talk. Let this moment mean something.

Or walk away before it gets harder.