She never saw him.
Not once. Not in person.
But somehow, he lingered longer in her than most people who stood inches from her skin.
They met online—accidentally, casually. A message here, a comment there. At first, he was just another name, another voice in a crowded inbox. But he listened. Not like others did. He didn't just reply, he responded. He caught her sadness in his hands like it was sacred.
He became the friend who knew too much. The one who remembered her bad days, who asked about things weeks after she forgot mentioning them. He watched her storm quietly from miles away, always offering her the same line:
"You deserve better. Leave it all behind. Choose yourself."
He was younger. Only by four months, but he made a war out of that difference. Always trying to prove he was older, louder, bolder. She teased him, softened his edges. And he? He snapped when she asked about his life, his dreams. One day, when she asked about his studies abroad, he fired back, "You're not my mother. Stop treating me like a child."
It stung. But she didn't leave. She never did.
One day, in the middle of an ordinary chat, he told her something that shook the ground beneath her:
"I imagined being with you. All of you."
She froze. Not because she was shocked by the fantasy—but by the truth wrapped in it.
She had told him before, gently, that she only wanted friendship. Her life was too complicated. Too tied to vows and shadows. She was unhappily married, stuck in a story she never wrote. He was free. Young. He had a whole sky ahead of him. And she? She just had windows.
He confessed after her rejection. Said he'd fallen. Said he had to cut her off. He blocked her. Then unblocked her. Called her stupid for not understanding. Blocked again. Unblocked again. Came back. Left. Came back.
Each time he returned, they acted like nothing had happened. And she let him. She never picked the fight. Never questioned the rhythm. She just... let it be.
Because he was genuine. He wasn't fake. He didn't ask for anything physical. He didn't demand. He just existed—in the corner of her world that still felt alive.
She admired him more than he would ever know. He was a better version of her. Freer. Louder. More himself. She envied that. And if the world were different—if hearts were free to choose without consequence—she might've run toward him.
But for now, she only had one wish:
Just to meet him once. Not to start anything. Just to prove he was real.
Because even in his chaos, he felt like the only truth she had ever known.
And maybe that was enough.
Maybe.
For now.
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