My phone vibrates like a drug abuser going through withdraw when I cross the Shing Mun River. I thought it was my friend texting me asking me where I am, and I was trying to reply “so I have told you I was trying to help an old lady to cross the road”. But when I drew the phone out and looked, it was a facebook notification. “Cynthia Chan mentioned you in a comment.” The notification said. I have no idea who is this Cynthia Chan. I touched the notification, and the comment said: “I want to cross the Bay of Bengal with Kuro”.

Bay of Bengal?

My finger moves across the screen. Before and after Cynthia Chan there are also tons of other comments. All of them said “I want to cross the Bay of Bengal with X”. “So all of these people want to cross the Bay of Bengal”, I thought. “Cars and ships are gonna get stuck there.” I continue to read and find that the original post is from a travel company. “Comment to tell us who you want to cross the Bay of Bengal with. If your desired companion says ‘yes’, you will be eligible for a lucky draw to win the prize of a 4 nights Bay of Bengal package tour.”

I could certainly say “yes”. The problem was I didn’t know who was Cynthia Chan. I stopped in the middle of the street, touched her name, and then her profile picture.

That was a girl with long hair. She was about 23 years old. She wore a deep blue long dress and a beige jumper. Under sunset in the Nara park where Gingko leaves covered the ground, she shyly pulled out her hand to feed a deer a piece of cracker.

“I will not be fooled by any fake account.” I think. I downloaded the image and searched it in Google, but there was no result, which meant that it was a unique photo, and the angel in it was an authentic person.

Her surname is Chan. Her first name is Cynthia. She wants to cross the Bay of Bengal with me. On one of the sunny days in mid-October, she and I set sail in a white yacht. The sea was as quiet as my 27 years of life. A deer flew down from the sky. She gave it a cracker. The deer licked her hand. Feeling tickled, she turned her head and giggled to me. I smiled to her.

“Yes!” I replied to her comment. But facebook gave me an error message. I refreshed the screen, and the comment was gone. There was no Cynthia Chan. My phone vibrates like a drug abuser going through withdraw. I picked the call.

“Where the hell are you? Everyone is waiting.”

“No, wait. Tell me, where is the Bay of Bengal?”