Evan sat at his desk, staring at the spreadsheet until the numbers bled into each other.  

His eyes burned, his thoughts miles away.  

On the screen of his mind glowed one short message from the night before:  

**[What are you doing?]**

Four words—nothing special.  

But to him, they cracked something open, letting a little light seep through the routine.

These days, their chats had settled into a quiet rhythm.  

He’d start most of them.  

**[Busy tonight?]**  

**[Yeah.]**  

**[Crowded?]**  

**[Sort of.]**

Sometimes she’d reply with just one syllable.  

**[Mm.]**  

**[Okay.]**

No emojis. No questions back.  

It was like a door left slightly open—enough to see a shadow, never the room behind it.  

He knew she wasn’t really interested.  

She was being polite, nothing more.  

But even those half-hearted replies made his pulse jump.  

At least she didn’t ignore him.  

At least she chose to answer.  

And for him, that was enough.

One night, long after the last train had passed, Evan was walking home from work.  

The air was sharp and cold, streetlights buzzing overhead.  

His phone buzzed.  

**[Still awake?]**

It was her.  

He stopped walking, staring at the screen.  

Her first message.  

**[Just left work. Walking home.]**  

His fingers trembled as he hit send.  

A moment later, her reply popped up.  

**[That late?]**

Just two words, but they warmed him like sunlight.  

He wanted to ask if she’d gotten home, but erased the sentence halfway.  

Too much, he thought. Don’t scare her away.

That weekend, he finally had a morning off.  

He slept in, sunlight slicing through the blinds.  

The silence of his apartment felt louder than usual.  

Scrolling through his phone, he stopped at her name.  

After a long hesitation, he typed:  

**[Day off today?]**

The reply didn’t come for almost an hour.  

**[Working.]**

He smiled faintly. Then, nothing.  

The chat hung there, unfinished, like a song cut mid-note.  

Her world spun at night; his, by day.  

Everything about them moved on opposite clocks.  

He started to wonder if these talks even made sense anymore.

That night, he sent another message anyway.  

**[Off work yet?]**

After a long wait—  

**[Not yet.]**

He set his phone aside and lay back, staring at the ceiling.  

The silence pressed in until he could hear his own heartbeat.  

*Maybe I’m just fooling myself,* he thought.  

She probably didn’t dislike him—but liking him?  

That was something else entirely.

A few days later, at the company dinner, laughter filled the table.  

His coworkers swapped stories about mortgages, new cars, stocks.  

Evan smiled, silent, picking at his food.  

Someone joked, “Evan, when are you getting a girlfriend? You’re too quiet, man.”  

He laughed it off, but something pinched inside.  

If he told them he’d been messaging a lounge hostess, they’d tear him apart with jokes.  

He took a sip of beer and said nothing.

Back home, the apartment was dim and still.  

He stared at his phone, torn between wanting to text her and wanting to delete the whole thread.  

*She’d never really be interested in me.*  

*I have nothing to offer.*  

He closed his eyes, the lamp’s glow faint against the walls.  

Then—his phone buzzed.  

**[Just got off work.]**

Three words.  

That was all.  

But to him, it was light breaking through the dark once again.