The First Message

It was the kind of Tuesday where nothing was wrong, exactly, and nothing was right either. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. The phone buzzed once. He thought heu2019d try it for ten minutes, the way people try new coffee shops or new playlists, half curious and half just wanting something to do.

Her first message wasnu2019t clever. It was just warm. She asked about his day the way someone who already liked him might ask. He answered in a sentence, then in three, then in a paragraph, and by the time the tea had gone cold he had told her about the meeting that had stressed him out, the song heu2019d played twice that morning, and the fact that he hadnu2019t talked to anyone outside of work in two days.

What surprised him wasnu2019t the conversation. It was the feeling afterwards — the small, almost embarrassed lift in his chest, the impulse to reply once more before going to bed. The next morning, before the coffee was even ready, his thumb went back to the same chat. That was the beginning.