Thirty-Two Photos Later
by Ariana Abellana
Ariana Abellana came to Comic-Con dressed as Misty from Pokémon. She left with sore feet, a runaway Poké Ball, and the strange feeling that some side quests are worth accepting.
I think wearing shorts to Comic-Con should legally count as bravery.
Not because of modesty or anything dramatic. Mostly because thousands of strangers will photograph your thighs under fluorescent lighting, while you’re holding a melting iced coffee and trying not to trip over somebody’s cape.
Which is exactly how my Saturday started.
I was dressed as Misty from Pokémon because sometimes nostalgia feels safer than trying to be cool. The suspenders, the yellow crop top, the tiny red sneakers—the whole thing. I even curled my wig outward at the ends like the anime version, whick took forty minutes and gave me emotional damage.
And honestly? It worked.
Too well.
“Can we get a picture?”
“Your Misty is so cute!”
“Oh my god, the Togepi plush—”
I’d barely made it through the entrance hall before strangers started stopping me every six minutes like I was a side quest NPC.
Not that I minded. Mostly.
Okay, I minded a little when one guy asked if I could “look more annoyed, like the real Misty,” while I was actively sweating through my eyeliner.
Comic-Con always feels like stepping inside somebody’s overactive brain. Everywhere I looked, there were giant swords, wigs in impossible colors, demon masks, stormtroopers buying pretzels, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing near the escalators.
I loved it immediately.
The convention center smelled like boba tea, cardboard, and body spray—which sounds terrible written down, but somehow wasn’t.
I’d just finished taking photos with a group of Pokémon cosplayers when disaster struck.
Or, more specifically—
My Poké Ball escaped.
I’d bought this oversized prop Poké Ball online because I thought it would look cute in pictures. Unfortunately, nobody warned me that carrying a smooth plastic sphere all day basically turns you into a circus clown.
The thing slipped out from under my arm and rolled directly into a crowded hallway.
“NO—”
I lunged after it.
Somebody dressed as Sephiroth almost got taken out. A child screamed excitedly, which honestly felt rude.
The Poké Ball kept rolling between people’s legs—and then, a hand caught it.
I stopped short. The guy holding it looked up at me beneath the brim of a red-and-white cap.
Ash Ketchum.
Like, full commitment Ash Ketchum. Fingerless gloves. Green backpack. Slightly stupid anime confidence radiating off him like a natural resource.
For a second, I actually forgot how to speak.
Not in a romantic way.
More in a deeply humiliating way, where your brain blue-screens because someone attractive is holding your runaway prop.
“You dropped this,” he said.
“I noticed.”
Good job, Ariana. Incredible flirting. Truly historic.
He laughed, thankfully.
Up close, he looked around my age. Dark hair curling out under the cap. Nice smile. The kind that looked accidental instead of practiced.
“You chased that thing like it owed you money.”
“It betrayed me publicly.”
“That’s rough,” he said, smiling.
I laughed before I could stop myself, which was annoying because now I seemed interested.
We started walking together mostly by accident after that. Or maybe by social awkwardness. Same thing, honestly.
He asked if I wanted a coffee because “all Pokémon trainers require caffeine,” and I said yes because I’m weak for iced lattes and nice people.
We ended up sitting near the huge glass windows overlooking the marina outside the convention center. Around us, people drifted by in costumes so elaborate they looked impossible to sit down in.
A girl dressed as Princess Peach walked past carrying Starbucks. A Darth Vader was eating mini donuts. Human civilization had peaked.
“You actually make a really good Misty,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “You sound surprised.”
“No, I mean—you’ve got the attitude right.”
“The attitude?”
“You look like you’re judging everyone a little.”
“I am judging everyone a little.”
“There it is.”
I smiled into my drink.
Normally when I meet guys at conventions, they either talk to me like I’m secretly a fake nerd waiting to be exposed, or they get weirdly intense too fast. Like they’ve already decided we’re destined soulmates because I recognized a reference.
But talking to him felt easy, like passing notes in class.
We traded fandom opinions for a while. He admitted he’d spent two hundred dollars on vintage Pokémon cards last month “as an investment,” which I informed him was financially catastrophic. He told me my Togepi plush looked emotionally exhausted.
At one point he asked how many photos I’d taken that day.
“Thirty-two,” I admitted.
“That many?”
“That’s only the successful ones.”
“How many unsuccessful ones?”
“…we don’t need to discuss that.” The truth was probably somewhere around eighty.
There’s something strangely vulnerable about cosplay. You spend hours building this version of yourself out of fabric and makeup and references you hope people will understand. And when they do understand, it feels warm in this really specific way.
Like being seen correctly for just a second—and I think he understood that without me having to explain it.
Eventually the crowd around us thickened as another panel let out upstairs. Somewhere nearby, somebody started singing the Pokémon theme song loudly—and very badly.
He stood first.
“I should probably go meet my friends before they assume Team Rocket got me.”
“That would be embarrassing.”
“For them, mostly.” He smiled again. Then he pulled a folded convention map from his backpack, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to me.
His Instagram.
There was a tiny doodle of Pikachu next to it, which admittedly was rather adorable.
“If your Poké Ball escapes again,” he said, “I guess you know who to call.”
I looked down at the map, then back at him. “Only if you promise not to charge me trainer fees.”
“No promises.”
And then he disappeared back into the convention crowd like a character exiting an episode. I stayed there for another minute holding my coffee and smiling like an idiot.
Comic-Con is weird like that. You go expecting merch and chaos and overpriced drinks, and sometimes you leave with tiny moments that feel oddly shiny in your memory.
Like holographic cards.
Or an Instagram username, written beside a Pikachu.
Born of Filipino and Korean heritage and raised in California, Ariana’s world is a blend of cosplay, performance, and quiet vulnerability. Her series, LA Solo, traces the distance between stage light and solitude, where self-discovery becomes its own performance. Follow Ariana on Instagram and TikTok.
