I didn't expect the joke to stay.
I didn't expect it to keep replaying in my head long after we laughed it off and moved on.
But there it was, sitting in the back of my thoughts like it had borrowed a seat and wasn't planning to leave.
We didn't talk about it again.
Not directly.
But the way she spoke to me changed. Not louder, not sweeter — just… softer. Like something had shifted and neither of us knew what to do with it.
That week, we kept talking. Every night.
Sometimes we'd fall asleep on call. Sometimes it was just voice notes. But the space between us felt a little smaller — even though we were still miles apart.
She sent me a picture of her new hairstyle. Said she hated it.
I said she looked perfect.
She replied:
"You're just saying that 'cause you want me to be yours."
I froze for a second.
Not because it hurt.
But because it sounded too close to something real.
I replied:
"I don't just want you to be mine. I want you to want it too."
Typing bubbles. Then they vanished.
Then they came back.
Then she sent a voice note. A short laugh, then:
"We've really entered talking stage 2.0, haven't we?"
I didn't know what that meant.
I didn't want to ask.
But for the first time, the silence between us didn't feel like just space — it felt like something blooming.
That night, we argued lightly over something small. She said I never open up.
I told her I open up when it matters.
She didn't reply for ten minutes.
Then:
"I think you matter."
It wasn't a love confession. It wasn't dramatic.
But it settled inside me like a stone in a still lake. Quiet. Deep. Heavy in all the right ways.
We didn't say more after that.
We just stayed on call, no words, both of us pretending to scroll our phones, but really just existing side by side in that soft, slow way only people who are almost touching can.
And when I fell asleep that night, I dreamt of a wave.
Not the kind you throw across a hallway.
The kind that pulls.