Definitely Not Qualified to Save the Universe! Tagline: "Apocalypse prevention was not in the syllabus."

Chapter 1: When Everything Falls Apart (And You Thought Your Day Was Bad)

The notification popped up on my phone just as I was working on drawings for a freelance project: We regret to inform you that your grandmother has passed away peacefully in her sleep.

I stared at the screen, my pencil freezing mid-stroke. Years of studying abroad and pulling all-nighters on my architecture degree had prepared me for structural failures and impossible client demands, but not for this hollow ache that seemed to reach all the way through my chest. I'd graduated from LA one month ago with my Master's and come back to Bangkok to figure out my life while freelancing. The plan had been working... well, "working" was generous. More like barely keeping my head above water while questioning every life choice that led to designing logos for bubble tea shops.

I set down my pencil and closed my laptop, moving carefully, as if everything might shatter if I wasn't gentle. Which, given my current emotional state, felt entirely possible.

The funeral was small, mostly neighbors from Grandma's small home and some relatives who spoke rapid-fire Thai that I could barely follow. After ten years in America, my Thai was embarrassingly rusty, like a skill I'd once treasured but had somehow let slip away when I wasn't paying attention.

I found myself studying how people moved through the temple space instead of focusing on the ceremony, which probably made me a terrible granddaughter. But architectural analysis was my coping mechanism, along with emotional eating and pretending everything was manageable when it clearly wasn't.

I'd cut off contact with both my parents years ago, and they hadn't bothered to show up. I'd always been the black sheep. Quarreling with my parents was what I did best when I was young, fighting about everything from my choices to my attitude to my refusal to simply comply and conform. Eventually, they'd sent me to the US at twelve, partly to get an education, partly to get me out of their hair. I'd ended up working part-time through university to support myself while studying architecture at LA, juggling shifts at coffee shops and retail stores between studio sessions and all-nighters. The only family contact I'd maintained was with Grandma, who never judged, never demanded I be someone I wasn't.

Coming back to Thailand one month ago had been like trying to remember a song you used to know by heart, except the melody kept shifting and you weren't entirely sure you'd ever really known all the words. Everything looked familiar but felt slightly off-key. My architect brain kept cataloging differences how buildings here felt different from American ones, how light worked differently through the humid air, but my heart just felt... lost.

Now I was alone in Grandma's little house, dealing with paperwork written in Thai I had to Google Translate and trying not to think too hard about what came next. Everyone expected me to handle everything because I had the American education and the fancy degree, but half the time I felt like I was drowning while wearing a life jacket made of expectations I couldn't quite live up to.

Grandma had been my bridge between worlds, my compass for navigating cultural confusion. Before I left for America, Grandma had taught me strange things, unusual skills that at the time seemed pointless, but Grandma had insisted would be important later. Now, surrounded by her strange collection of river stones and faded photographs of ancestors near various waterways, I wondered if I'd been missing something important all along.

I was sitting on the front steps, sketching the houses next door while video-calling Mary (because processing grief alone felt too overwhelming), when movement in the tall grass caught my attention.

“The firm is still interested in your portfolio, especially that sustainable waterway Architecture project from your thesis" Mary was saying from her LA apartment, probably drinking overpriced coffee and genuinely trying to help.

A cat emerged from the weeds, chunky and confident with black and white patches that looked like someone had applied paint with careful, deliberate strokes. She had the most unusual eyes I'd ever seen: one green, one amber, totally mismatched but somehow perfectly balanced. Like a walking example of asymmetrical design that actually worked.

"Mary, hold up," I said softly, lowering my phone.

"Meow," the cat announced, walking up like she'd been expected and was only mildly surprised by the lack of a proper welcome.

I set down my sketchbook. The cat climbed the steps with perfect spatial awareness, better than most humans I knew, sat directly in front of me, and did that slow-blink thing that supposedly meant "I love you" in cat language. Though knowing cats, it probably meant something more complex that humans would never fully understand.

"You look like a... Mameow," I said, the name just appearing in my head like a gentle thought that decided to stay.

"Did you seriously just name a random cat?" Mary's voice came through the phone, but there was warmth in it, the particular brand of gentle teasing that only comes from best friends who've known you through everything.

Mameow purred like a tiny motor with perfect efficiency and settled into my lap like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment. The weight of his was solid and real and comforting. I let my hand rest on his soft fur, feeling the rumble of his purr beneath my palm, and something in my chest unclenched - just a little.

This was how Grandma used to touch my hair when I was small and the world felt too big and confusing. Gentle. Patient. Like I was something precious that deserved care, even when I felt like I didn't deserve anything at all. Mameow looked up at me with those mismatched eyes, slow-blinking again, and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

"Hey, you okay?" Mary asked quietly from the phone.

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me clearly through my screen. Mameow bumped his head against my hand, demanding more attention in that insistent way cats have, and I found myself smiling through the tears.

"Yeah," I whispered, stroking Mameow's head the way Grandma used to stroke mine, with tenderness, I'd forgotten I was capable of, with a gentleness I'd been craving without even knowing it. "I think maybe I will be."

For the first time since the funeral, I didn't feel quite so alone. Mameow settled deeper into my lap, purring steadily like a promise that some kind of comfort still existed in the world, that gentleness and care weren't gone forever, just transformed into something new, something unexpected, something that had found its way to me exactly when I needed it most.