The first thing that ever existed between them was a screen.
A quiet night. A glowing phone. A city pretending to sleep while thousands of lives scrolled past each other without noticing.
He almost skipped her.
Not because she wasn't pretty—she was—but because there was something unsettling about how calm her profile felt. No desperate jokes. No dramatic captions. No pick me energy.
Just a soft smile and eyes that looked like they already knew something he didn't.
He sent the like anyway.
Didn't expect much. Never did.
So when the match notification appeared the next morning—She liked you back—his thumb froze mid-scroll.
Something about it felt… intentional.
Like she had chosen him.
Their first conversation was harmless. Polite. Casual.
"What made you send the like?" she asked.
He stared at the screen longer than necessary.
"Honestly?"
"Always."
"Felt right."
Three words. No flirting. No exaggeration.
There was a pause.
Then: "That's rare."
From that moment, the replies came faster. The conversations stretched longer. They talked about college—same city, different campuses. Complained about assignments, professors, deadlines that never cared how tired you were.
They joked. Teased. Tested boundaries lightly.
A few days later, she sent the message that shifted things.
"You seem real. Add me on Insta?"
No emojis. No hesitation.
They left the dating app behind without ceremony, like it had already served its purpose.
Social media changed the rhythm.
Stories replaced bios. Late-night replies replaced small talk. They started recognizing patterns—when the other was bored, stressed, half-asleep.
Their houses were close. Too close, actually. Same neighborhood.
But he lived in a hostel.
Distance is strange like that.
Ten minutes can feel like ten kilometers.
One night, close to midnight, she sent a voice note instead of a text.
"You free?"
He called her without replying.
She picked up immediately.
That call lasted two hours.
They talked about everything they hadn't typed yet. Childhood memories. Things they regretted. Things they wanted but didn't say out loud often.
Her voice sounded different through the phone—lower, slower, confident.
Somewhere between laughter and silence, the tone shifted.
The teasing became deliberate. Pauses stretched longer. Breaths were noticed.
"You're quiet," she said at one point.
"Listening," he replied.
"Liar," she said softly. "You're imagining."
He didn't deny it.
She laughed. Low. Dangerous.
By the time the conversation faded into silence, neither of them hung up.
They fell asleep still connected—phones warm, lines open, boundaries thinner than before.
After that, it became routine.
Calls almost every night. Messages first thing in the morning. The kind of familiarity that sneaks up on you and refuses to leave.
So when Friday came and he told her he was coming home for the weekend, her reply came instantly.
"Then we're meeting."
Not a suggestion.
A statement.
The mall near their houses was ordinary. Glass, lights, brands everyone recognized.
But when he saw her standing near the entrance—hands relaxed, posture confident, eyes scanning until they landed on him—everything else lost focus.
She smiled first.
Not shy.
Not nervous.
Curious.
"So," she said, stepping closer, "you exist in three dimensions."
He laughed. "Disappointed?"
"Not yet."
They didn't hug. Didn't shake hands.
She turned and started walking, assuming he'd follow.
He did.
They wandered through the mall without a plan. Commented on random things. Shared food without discussing it. She took a bite first, then held it out to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Their shoulders brushed. Once. Twice.
The second time, she didn't move away.
She noticed everything.
The way his voice changed when he laughed. The way he glanced at her lips mid-sentence and then looked away like he'd been caught.
"You do that a lot," she said.
"Do what?"
"Think before feeling."
Before he could respond, she reached out and fixed his sleeve—fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Relax," she added. "I don't mind."
That unsettled him more than it should have.
They stood near the railing at one point, watching people move below them like background noise.
"You're quieter in person," she said.
"You're… bolder," he replied.
She smiled. "Good."
As evening settled in, the crowd thinned. Lights softened. The air cooled.
They sat on a bench near the exit.
Close.
Not touching.
She leaned back, arms crossed, studying him openly.
"You've wanted to hold my hand for the last ten minutes," she said.
He blinked. "That obvious?"
She leaned forward slightly. Invaded his space without apology.
"Yes."
Then—without asking—she reached out and laced her fingers through his.
Firm. Confident.
His breath caught.
"Relax," she said quietly, thumb brushing over his knuckles. "If I didn't want to, I wouldn't."
He swallowed. "You're… very direct."
"I don't like wasting moments," she replied. "Especially ones that matter."
The weight of her words settled between them.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it. Exhaled once.
"I should go," she said, tone shifting—decisive.
They stood. Still holding hands.
She stepped closer. Close enough that the space between them felt intentional now.
"Today went exactly how I hoped," she said.
Before he could reply, she leaned in—her lips near his ear, her voice low enough to send a shiver down his spine.
"There's something important I haven't told you yet."
His heart stuttered. "What is it?"
She pulled back slowly, eyes dark with something unreadable.
"And once I do," she continued, "things won't stay this simple."
A beat.
"Next time," she said. Not a question. A promise.
She squeezed his hand once—hard, grounding—then let go and turned away.
No goodbye.
He watched her disappear into the evening crowd, her words echoing louder than the mall around him.
Things won't stay this simple.
And for the first time since that late-night like, he wondered—
Whether he was ready for the truth she was about to bring into his life.