[His POV]
The apartment is too quiet when I get home.
The kind of quiet that clings to the walls. I drop my keys in the bowl, kick off my shoes, and leave the lights dim. There's no point pretending I'll be productive tonight. No half-written scene waiting on my laptop. Just leftovers in the fridge and a half-finished playlist echoing off the corners of a tired room.
I sit by the window instead.
From here, I can see the city blinking faintly—tail lights threading through narrow streets, someone walking their dog in a hoodie too big for them, and a window across the alley lit up in warm yellow.
She's not there, obviously.
But I think of her.
Of the way she handed me that notebook without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Of the phrase she said on the bus—"regret is a hallway with no doors."
God.
I've never forgotten that line. I read it last year, in a fic that didn't get many views. The kind that you stumble into at 3 a.m. and accidentally leave a part of yourself behind in. I remembered the username, too—Nymphaea—because the way she wrote made it feel like she'd bled her whole soul into the screen.
It can't be a coincidence, can it?
But no—she said it like she'd read it, not written it.
Still, something in her voice… it wasn't quoting. It was remembering.
I drag my fingers through my hair and lean back.
The glow from the streetlight casts pale gold onto the floor. I reach for my phone and open the old writing app. My drafts haven't moved in days, but the cursor still blinks like it's waiting.
Like maybe I've got something worth saying tonight.
I type a few lines.
Backspace. Rewrite. Pause.
Eventually, I write:
Some people pass through you like wind.
Others settle like dust.
And the rare ones—the rare ones crack you open and name the pieces you thought you buried.
I don't know if it's good.
I don't even know if it's true.
But I save it anyway.
⸻
[Her POV]
There's something about getting home that makes everything hit harder.
I peel off my coat, toss my scarf over the back of a chair, and just stand in the middle of the room. The floor creaks like it's reminding me that I still exist.
I should shower. Eat something. Check edits.
But all I can think about is how his sleeve brushed mine on the bus and how he looked at me like he wanted to ask something but didn't. That kind of restraint sits heavy in my chest.
I sit at my desk, turn on my old lamp, and stare at the blinking cursor in my draft folder.
He said he used to write on buses. I wonder if he still does.
The version of him in my mind has a messy folder of notes, saved with names like "dialogue? maybe?" or "scene3_alt_real??". I imagine his desktop background is something minimal and slightly outdated. Probably hasn't changed it in years.
I wonder if he knows what kind of writer he is yet.
I open the file I've been avoiding.
A short story I started three weeks ago. The main character works in a café. I didn't mean to base him on anyone, but the resemblance crept in: soft-spoken, observant, tired in the way only young people can be tired—like life hasn't broken them, just worn them thin.
And then there's the girl he meets on the bus.
I didn't know what she looked like until tonight. But now the image is too sharp to ignore: dark hair, eyes like obsidian glass, always one step from vanishing.
I reread the last few paragraphs.
The part where she doesn't say goodbye.
Only "same time tomorrow."
My fingers hover over the keys.
I want to write more. To finish it.
But first, I open a browser tab and type something into the search bar I swore I wouldn't.
His username.
The one he mentioned offhand once, when we talked about old writing apps and comment sections.
It still exists. Still quiet. Just a few posts. One new update.
I click.
It's short.
Just three lines.
Some people pass through you like wind.
Others settle like dust.
And the rare ones—the rare ones crack you open and name the pieces you thought you buried.
I press my palm to my chest.
Like my heart needs reminding to stay put.
He doesn't know I'm here. Reading this. Sitting across a screen instead of beside him.
But it feels like he's writing to me anyway.
⸻
[Back to Him]
I leave the draft open and stand to stretch, reaching for a half-empty glass of water. The room's dark enough now that the lamp casts long shadows.
I glance out the window again.
Still no sign of her.
I don't even know where she lives, and I kind of like it that way.
She exists in a space just outside the ordinary. Someone who belongs to streetlights and late-night buses and dog-eared notebooks.
I wonder if she wrote anything tonight.
Then I wonder if maybe she's thinking the same thing.
I sit back down.
Scroll through a few comments from old posts.
One new like. No username attached. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
For some reason, it feels louder than anything anyone's ever said.
⸻
[Back to Her]
I don't comment.
Not yet.
But I hit the like button, just once, and imagine it landing like a pebble in his inbox. Not enough to shake anything. Just a ripple. Just something that says:
I see you.
Then I close the tab, open my draft, and finally begin to write.
Not as Nymphaea.
Not as the author.
Just as me.
And for tonight, that's enough.