By 6:47 p.m., Aanya Mehra had decided that if the universe were a person, she would block it.
The day had started badly—alarm not going off, coffee tasting like regret—but it ended worse, which felt personal.
The client sat across from her now, tapping a manicured nail against the conference table like a countdown clock. He had opinions. Many of them. None of them were useful.
"I just don't feel like the design speaks," he said, leaning back as if he'd delivered something profound.
She stared at the mockup on the screen. Clean. Balanced. Thoughtful. She had spent three nights adjusting spacing no one would consciously notice but everyone would feel. It spoke. It sang, actually. Softly. In a way that didn't demand attention.
"What exactly doesn't it say?" she asked carefully.
He frowned. "You know. It doesn't pop."
Of course.
Across the table, her manager nodded. Not in agreement—worse. In that vague, noncommittal way that meant handle it yourself. He didn't look at her, just at the client, smiling the smile he reserved for people who paid invoices.
"Well," the manager said, "maybe we can explore some bolder options."
She swallowed the words you approved this yesterday and replaced them with a nod.
By the time the meeting ended, the client had left satisfied, her manager had already forgotten her existence, and she was left packing up her laptop with the distinct sensation of being very small.
Her phone buzzed as she stood.
Maya (Saved as "DO NOT IGNORE"):
Tell me your meeting is over and you survived.
She exhaled. At least one thing in the world made sense.
She typed as she walked toward the elevator, thumbs moving fast, frustration spilling out.
Her:
I hate my job today.
He didn't like anything.
Manager just nodded like a bobblehead.
I swear if one more person says "make it pop" I will scream.
She hit send without looking.
The elevator dinged. She stepped in, alone, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the city reflected faintly in the mirrored walls. Her shoulders slumped as the doors slid shut.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
That sounds exhausting. I'm sorry.
"Make it pop" should be banned as a phrase.
She blinked.
She stopped walking when the elevator opened on her floor, nearly colliding with a potted plant.
She frowned at the screen.
Unknown number?
She scrolled up. The message had definitely sent. The number… wasn't her best friend's. One digit off, maybe. Autocorrect for phone numbers—her greatest enemy.
She hesitated. Social rules said: apologize, clarify, exit. Simple.
But something about the reply—that sounds exhausting—felt sincere in a way most apologies didn't bother with.
She typed anyway.
Her:
Oh—sorry! Wrong number.
Meant to text my friend.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Unknown Number:
No worries.
For what it's worth, I agree with you. Clients who can't explain what they want are the worst.
She laughed softly, surprising herself.
She could stop now. Should stop now.
Instead, she leaned against the hallway wall, bag slipping off her shoulder.
Her:
They want "bold" but not too bold.
Creative but safe.
New but familiar.
Unknown Number:
Ah. The impossible brief.
She smiled. A real one this time.
Her:
Exactly.
She stared at the phone, waiting for the conversation to end naturally. It didn't.
Unknown Number:
Did it help to vent, at least a little?
Her thumb hovered. This was a stranger. A complete accident. No expectations. No history.
She answered honestly.
Her:
Yeah.
More than I thought it would.
There was a pause. Longer this time. She wondered if she'd crossed some invisible line.
Unknown Number:
I'm glad.
Bad days feel heavier when you don't get to put them down somewhere.
Her chest tightened—not painfully, just enough to notice.
She pushed off the wall and started walking toward her apartment, keys already in hand.
Her:
You're… surprisingly good at this.
Unknown Number:
At accidentally being emotional support?
Her:
Yes. That.
She unlocked her door, stepping into the quiet of her apartment. Shoes off, bag dropped, lights still off. The city hummed faintly outside her window.
She should end it now. Thank him. Wish him well. Delete the number.
Instead—
Her:
I owe you an apology for dumping all that on you.
Unknown Number:
You don't.
I chose to reply.
She sat on the edge of the couch.
Her:
Why did you?
Another pause. She imagined him—no, she stopped herself. No imagining. He was just words on a screen.
Unknown Number:
Because I was having a long day too.
And it felt… human.
She swallowed.
Her:
Yeah.
It did.
Silence stretched. Comfortable. Unrushed.
Her phone buzzed again.
Best Friend (DO NOT IGNORE):
HELLO??
Did you die in that meeting or what
She snorted.
Her:
Sorry—alive.
Client was unbearable.
I'll call you in a bit.
She glanced back at the unknown thread.
Her:
I should probably let you get back to your evening.
Unknown Number:
Probably.
But I'm glad our paths crossed. Even accidentally.
She smiled at the darkened room.
Her:
Me too.
Thanks for being kind.
Unknown Number:
Anytime, Wrong Number.
She laughed—quiet, genuine, a sound that felt like relief.
They didn't exchange names.
They didn't promise to talk again.
She plugged in her phone, stood up, and turned on the light.
But as she moved toward the kitchen, she caught herself thinking—not who was he? but something softer, more dangerous.
I hope he had a better night.
And somewhere else in the city, a man stared at his phone a moment longer than necessary, before setting it face-down on the table with the faintest smile—one no one at work ever saw.
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