[Her POV]
Some mornings start loud even when no sound is made.
The kettle is the same. The mug is the same. The light leaking in through the blinds is the same. But everything feels off by a few centimeters—like someone rewrote the script of your life and handed it back with the margins erased.
I sit at the kitchen table in yesterday's hoodie, chin resting on my palm, the tea cooling too fast beside my elbow. The cursor on my screen blinks patiently, waiting for me to become the version of myself who writes without hesitation.
But today, that version of me is gone.
Or hiding.
I reread his post again.
The one I've bookmarked now, like it means something more than it should.
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.
There's no flourish in the phrasing. No self-importance. Just the kind of sentence that stays with you hours later while brushing your teeth or standing still in a checkout line.
And I wonder—again—if he knows I read it.
If he can feel me circling around him, like gravity that hasn't quite made up its mind.
•
I almost said something yesterday.
We were walking to the bus stop, our steps slow, matching without trying. The space between us barely existed. If I had leaned just slightly toward him, my arm would've brushed his again. My voice had formed the shape of it:
"Hey… can I tell you something?"
But I swallowed it. Like I always do.
Because the truth isn't something I can package neatly. Not with someone like him. Not when I know how it would sound out loud.
"Remember that story with the hallway and no doors? That line you said you remembered? I wrote that."
What would that even change?
Would he look at me differently?
Would I want him to?
•
I open my email and scroll past the editorial notes on my upcoming post. My agent's message sits at the top of the inbox, flagged red:
"Still haven't received the short for the anthology. Deadline's in four days. Let me know if you're stuck."
I am stuck.
But not because of the story.
I'm stuck in the liminal space between versions of myself.
The version online—Nymphaea—can write anything. Bleed openly. She's admired, even if quietly. Readers call her "honest" and "raw." Sometimes "painfully real."
But in real life, I mumble. I hesitate. I apologize before asking anything. I sit beside a boy on the bus and tuck my hands into my sleeves so I don't accidentally give myself away.
He has no idea.
And part of me wants to keep it that way.
•
I finally shower, pull my hair into a loose braid, and take my laptop to the balcony. It's too cold to be out here long, but I need the air. The kind that isn't warmed by recycled heater vents or old coffee.
I reread the story draft—the one that started as fiction and slowly, unwillingly, began to turn into memory.
He's in it now. The way he leans back when he's listening. The slight rasp in his voice when he's tired. How he never finishes his coffee all the way.
And the girl? She's never been this clear.
In early drafts, she was flat. A trope. But now she's flawed and cautious and sometimes cruel to herself without knowing it. Now she presses her fingers into her palm when she wants to say something vulnerable. Now she wears a scarf even when she's indoors, like it's armor.
Now she's me.
And that makes writing her harder.
•
By late afternoon, I'm back inside, curled sideways on the couch with a blanket over my legs. The screen is open to a blank message. I've typed his username into the DM bar.
I've never sent him anything.
Not directly.
The blinking cursor feels like it's mocking me.
I type:
"Hey. I don't know if you'll remember, but we talked about that line. The hallway with no doors."
Then I delete it.
I try again.
"I think I know the author of that story you liked. She's a friend."
Backspace.
Too dishonest.
Again:
"There's something I want to tell you. About that story."
My thumb hovers over "Send."
Then I close the window.
It's not time.
Not yet.
•
At dusk, I walk to the bus stop early. I don't need to be anywhere. I'm not going downtown tonight. But part of me hopes he'll be there anyway. That we'll end up sharing a bench and a quiet conversation again, just like always.
But the bench is empty.
The schedule says I'm thirty minutes early.
I sit anyway.
Pull my notebook from my bag. The one I let him read from.
I flip to a blank page and start writing—not fiction this time. Not lines meant for readers.
Just something for me.
Something for him, maybe.
I think you're the first person I've met who makes me want to be known.
Not admired.
Not followed.
Just known.
The mess, the silence, the stories I never post.
All of it.
•
Ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
The sun dips lower, turning the buildings amber.
Still no sign of him.
Maybe he didn't take the bus today.
Maybe he needed a break.
I stand, tuck the notebook away, and board the next one alone.
The seat by the window is cold when I sit down. I pull my scarf tighter.
I imagine him sitting beside me again.
Not saying anything. Just being there.
I close my eyes and let the rhythm of the road lull my thoughts into something softer.
Tomorrow, maybe I'll tell him.
Or maybe I won't.
But for tonight, I will keep writing.
And when I get home, I'll finish that story.
And maybe—just maybe—I'll sign it with my real name.