Screaming into the abyss is surprisingly therapeutic.
"AHHHHHHHHHH—"
Okay, that's enough. My throat's dry, my neighbor just banged on the wall, and I'm dangerously close to giving myself a hernia. But what else is a man supposed to do after getting cheated on and dumped by the same woman—within the same week?
Let me introduce myself before I emotionally combust into glitter and rage.
I'm Lucien Chakma. Lucien, as in "cool, mysterious, possibly tortured artist." Chakma, as in "good luck finding that name on a keychain." But friends (both of them) call me Lu.
I'm 26. I'm handsome. I say this with the confidence of someone who's been told so by a middle-aged aunt, two drunk classmates, and my own bathroom mirror on good hair days. And yet, despite this Greek statue face and a heart soft enough to be legally declared mashed potatoes, I remain—painfully—single.
Not single by choice. Oh no. Single by fate. By bad luck. By Toby.
Let's talk about Toby. But first, let's set the stage.
I graduated in 2023 thinking I'd write the next great novel. I imagined myself in a hip café, typing away on a rose-gold laptop, sipping overpriced coffee brewed with the tears of indie baristas. But reality had other plans.
Reality gave me bad Wi-Fi, a desk with one wobbly leg, and an income so low even mosquitoes wouldn't bite me out of pity. My diet consists of instant noodles, my sleep schedule is sponsored by anxiety, and my writing career is currently marinating in a broth of rejection emails.
But then came Toby. Oh, Toby.
Toby was 24. Average looking—if we're being honest—but in my eyes, she was Helen of Troy dipped in filter lighting. She had this awkward laugh, crooked teeth, and a collection of hair clips that could've formed their own species. But love? Love makes you stupid. Love makes you see stars in streetlights and poetry in potato chips.
We met online. Naturally. Because how else does a socially anxious, financially unstable writer meet anyone these days? Dating apps: where hopes go to die and thirst goes to thrive.
She messaged first. Said something like, "Your bio's funny lol." That "lol" should've been my first red flag. No one who uses "lol" unironically is emotionally stable. But I was lonely, undercaffeinated, and flattered.
Our texts turned into voice notes. Voice notes turned into calls. Calls turned into video chats. One time, I wore a Spider-Man suit just to impress her. That's basically a marriage proposal coming from me. She laughed and called me her "knight in shining Spandex." I called her my "favorite idiot."
It was… nice. Sweet. Warm in a way I hadn't felt since the last time my mom forced soup into me during a fever.
I told my parents.
My dad blinked three times and gave me a thumbs-up like I'd just climbed Everest. My mom immediately started asking questions like she was trying to build Toby in a lab. "What's her nickname? What's her blood type? What's her mother's maiden name? Does she believe in karma or Bitcoin?"
And then, just when things felt stable—just when I started planning our imaginary future and debating if I should buy matching toothbrushes—disaster struck.
Instagram. Of course.
One cursed Thursday afternoon, while scrolling through my feed of shirtless influencers and people who peak in gym selfies, I saw her.
Toby.
With someone else.
Another girl.
At first, I thought, "Oh cute, she made a friend." But then I saw the caption.
"With my baby boo! #foreverus #ageisjustanumber #lovedoesntseegender #blessed"
My soul left my body.
I blinked. Zoomed in. Zoomed out. Tilted the phone like maybe, just maybe, I was misreading. But no. That was her smile. Her chin mole. That tragic floral gown I once politely said looked like a grandma's curtain in denial.
Toby wasn't just dating someone else.
She was dating a girl.
And suddenly, I realized—I wasn't the main character.
I was the side quest. The emotional filler episode in her coming-out arc.
I had been used. Bamboozled. Turned into a practice boyfriend so she could explore her sexuality.
And look, I'm all for self-discovery. Truly. Be who you are. But maybe don't drag me into your identity crisis like I'm a free trial version of heterosexual romance?
I threw my phone onto the bed like it had personally betrayed me.
Opened our chat. Scrolled. Regretted. Closed it. Reopened. Screamed. Took a screenshot. Deleted. Cried. Downloaded again from Google backup. Why is love just tech support with extra steps?
And in the middle of my emotional breakdown, fueled by heartbreak and too many instant noodles, I whispered the most unhinged, iconic line I've ever said:
"I wish I was a mosquito. Just for a day. So I could bite her. With dengue."
That's right. Not "I wish I was rich." Not "I want abs." No. I wanted to be a dengue mosquito. A tiny, vengeful, disease-carrying karma agent.
And that, dear reader, is where things got weird.
Because somewhere in the drunken corners of the universe, the cosmos said, "You know what? Let's make it happen."
That's when she arrived.
A fairy. But not the glittery, Disney kind. No. This one looked like she had been kicked out of a carnival and fell into a discount craft store.
She wore sequined Crocs, a tutu over ripped jeans, and her wand? A glitter-covered chopstick. She floated in like a confused firefly, popping bubble wrap wings every time she flapped too hard.
She hovered over my bed and said, "So… you wanna be a mosquito? That's original. I like it. Spiteful. Weird. Very 2025."
I stared at her. She smelled like expired glitter glue and sarcasm.
She snapped her fingers. A moth fainted.
"You've got 24 hours, mosquito boy. Go buzz your revenge. After that—poof. Back to sad man mode."
Before I could say "Wait, no—" I shrank.
Arms folded. Legs tucked in. My body twisted like a rejected yoga pose. My nose turned into a straw.
I was small. I had wings. I was ready.
I was Aedes aegypti. The elite mosquito. The villain of summer nights. The slap ninja. The vampire of vengeance.
I buzzed once. It sounded like betrayal, injustice, and a high-pitched promise of payback.
My vision changed. I could see heat. Smell perfume. Taste heartbreak in the air like garlic-flavored sorrow.
"Go get her, dengue king," the fairy whispered before vanishing into a puff of sparkles and poor life choices.
So here I am.
Tiny. Angry. Vibing at 500 wingbeats per second.
Flying through the night sky with nothing but rage, a straw for a face, and the deeply personal need to ruin Toby's sleep.
Toby. You average-looking, collagen-chasing, smirk-hiding monster.
You thought you could use me?
Well tonight…
I bite back.
---
I was flying.
Flying at the glorious speed of… 2.5 kilometers per hour.
Majestic, right? Like a paper plane caught in a sneeze.
But then—ugh. Hunger hit me like a hangover after three sips of boxed wine. My belly growled, or... buzzed? Whatever mosquitoes have instead of stomachs. Point is: I needed blood.
There! A human! Walking, breathing, full of juicy, oxygen-rich hemoglobin! I could already taste the iron. And I had just acquired a brand-new bloodsucking straw. Top of the line. Sleek. Shiny. FDA unapproved. I needed to test it out, make sure it wasn't some cheap knockoff that came with mosquito scam ads: "Suck better, fly faster! Limited time proboscis upgrade!"
My tiny wings buzzed with every flap—eeeeeeeeeeeee—so high-pitched even I was annoyed. I didn't even know mosquitoes could get tired, but here I was: Aedes Lucien, emotionally unstable and physically done, about to pass out mid-air like a drunk drone.
My compound eyes were glitching like a shattered phone screen after a toddler's tantrum. I had no GPS, no mosquito version of Google Maps, no mosquito instincts left in me. Just sheer desperation and spite.
And vengeance. Can't forget vengeance. This wasn't just about survival.
It was about Toby.
Yes. Her. The ex. My Toby. A 24-year-old, average-looking human who I once thought was beautiful until she turned out to be a lesbian and used me—ME—as a heterosexual decoy.
I wanted payback. The mosquito version of a bitter breakup text. A viral breakup text. Dengue, to be precise.
Then I heard it—a whoosh. A disturbance in the wind. A cruel reminder that even the air hated me.
I had to zigzag, like a drunk pigeon, to get back on course. There! I spotted her. Or… wait. Him?
I landed.
On an arm. A man's arm.
Whoops.
Okay, maybe not ideal, but blood is blood, right?
I rubbed my tiny mosquito hands together like a mad scientist. Polished my bloodsucking straw. Licked my nonexistent lips. It was time to pierce some skin.
But then… something felt wrong. I hesitated.
Why don't I feel thirsty anymore?
Wait… no.
No. No no no no.
I remembered. In a blinding flash of existential stupidity.
I'm male.
Male Aedes mosquitoes… don't drink blood.
We sip nectar. Friggin' NECTAR. Flower juice. That's what I came into this world for? Pollination and disappointment?
I can't even bite Toby. I can't infect her with dengue. I'm useless. A fraud. A winged imposter in the mosquito mafia.
And that's when it hit me.
Not the realization. The hand.
A massive, human hand, rising like a vengeful god in a tank top. Before I could even gasp, I saw it through a million fragmented lenses—coming straight for me.
"Oh no," I whispered. My thorax twitched. My straw curled up in sheer terror.
"This is karma, isn't it?" I muttered. "This is for trying to infect my ex. This is mosquito hell."
I flapped my wings, desperate for lift-off, trying to abort mission, pull an aerial U-turn—but it was too late.
SMACK!
The sound echoed across the street like a meaty exclamation point. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a grandma clutched her pearls.
And as I spiraled into darkness, spiraling down like a failed parachute, my mosquito life flashed before my eyes: getting wing's, learning to hover, practicing stealth flight over Toby's hairy arm.
And then… blackness.
Void.
Nothing.
With my last breath, I croaked, "I'm doomed."
And I was.
Not from blood loss. Not from heartbreak. But from the sheer cosmic comedy of being a mosquito with a vendetta and no fangs to back it up.
---