2. Zoya #2
“You’re defensive and realistic.”
I take another sip of wine and reread the messages, trying not to examine too closely why my chest feels lighter than it did an hour ago. It’s ridiculous, really. This is ridiculous. But it’s also… easy. Easier than it should be.
Maybe because I don’t have to picture the other person looking at me.
Maybe because I’m not trying to interpret someone’s face while also being painfully aware of my own.
Maybe because words, on their own, have always felt safer.
I type: She is exhausting. Unfortunately she’s usually right.
There’s a brief pause.
Then:
Unknown Number: That’s a dangerous trait in a friend.
Karina groans. “Oh, I hate this person.”
“You hate everyone I might hypothetically enjoy.”
“I hate anyone who threatens my position.”
“Your position as what?”
“The most charming person in your life.”
I snort. “Threatened already?”
“Deeply.”
My phone buzzes again before I answer her.
Unknown Number: How badly did she pressure you into this?
I smile.
Karina sees me smiling and looks offended on principle. “What now?”
“He asked how much you pressured me.”
She clutches her chest. “He asked? So we’re assigning pronouns now?”
I hesitate.
She catches it immediately. “Oh my God,” she says. “You think it’s a man too.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
“I just think…” I stop and glance back at the screen. “I don’t know. The tone feels masculine.”
Karina beams like she’s won something. “Exactly.”
“But we could both be wrong.”
“We could,” she agrees. “But we’re probably not.”
I type back: Enough that I can blame her if this goes horribly.
Unknown Number: That’s generous of her. Most people refuse to take full responsibility for their bad ideas.
I laugh again, quieter this time.
Karina reaches across the table. “Hand it over. I need to evaluate.”
“No.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m preserving the only shred of mystery left in this situation.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re into the mystery.”
“I am not into the mystery.”
“You are one hundred percent into the mystery.”
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again because unfortunately that feels a little too close to the truth.
Maybe I am. Not in some huge way. Not enough to be stupid about it. But there’s something weirdly thrilling about talking to someone who exists only in sentences. No face, no assumptions, no immediate disappointment. Just language. Timing. Humor.
I tap out another reply: If this becomes a cautionary tale, I plan to tell it in a way that makes me look unfairly sympathetic.
Unknown Number: That seems reasonable. I’d do the same.
Karina watches my face carefully, then reaches for her drink. “I’m telling you right now, if this turns into a grand love story, I expect full credit.”
“Grand love story,” I repeat flatly. “We’ve exchanged, like, eight texts.”
“Some of us recognize narrative momentum.”
“Some of us need hobbies.”
“I have hobbies. This is one of them now.”
I laugh and shake my head, then look down when the three little dots appear again.
Unknown Number: Are you always this agreeable?
I read it once. Then again.
Karina notices the silence. “What did mystery person say?”
I turn the phone toward her.
She sucks in a breath. “Okay, this is definitely a guy.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s annoyingly attractive.”
“That is not a gender marker.”
“It is in my heart.”
I laugh so hard I almost spill my wine.
Then I look back at the message and feel that now-familiar flutter low in my stomach. It’s teasing, obviously. Light. But there’s something under it too, something dry and self-assured. Like he expects me to answer back.
Or she, I remind myself.
Or they.
Still.
I type: No. This is me being unusually brave for one evening.
Karina falls back against the booth and stares at the ceiling. “I cannot believe this is working.”
“Nothing is working.”
“You’re glowing.”
“I’m warm from the wine.”
“You’re glowing from the validation.”
I give her a dry look. “Please never say validation like that again.”
She grins. “Fine. You’re glowing from the vibes.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is. I’m committed.”
I should probably slow this down. Any sensible person would.
Instead I type: I haven’t decided if you’re reassuring or a terrible influence.
The dots appear.
Unknown Number: Why not both?
I laugh helplessly and drop my head for a second.
Karina points at me. “There. That. You like them.”
“I like this conversation.”
“Same difference.”
“It is not.”
“Zoya.”
I look up. She’s smiling, but there’s something gentler in it now. Less teasing. More knowing. “You look happy,” she says.
The words catch me off guard. I glance down at my phone again, at the ridiculous little message thread that shouldn’t matter and somehow does, just a little.
Happy is maybe too big a word for it. But lighter, yes. More awake. Like some quiet part of me I’d tucked away for safekeeping has stretched and looked around.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: You went quiet. Did I lose my audience?
Karina makes a strangled noise. “Audience? Oh, this is criminal.”
I bite back a smile and type: No. My friend is live-commenting your personality.
Unknown Number: And the verdict?
I glance at Karina.
She straightens like she’s been invited onto a panel show. “Tell him I said smug. And suspiciously competent.”
“We don’t know that it’s a him.”
Karina throws both hands up. “You’re the one smiling at your phone.”
“That has nothing to do with gender.”
“Mm-hm.”
I look back down and type: Current assessment: smug. Possibly competent. Identity still under review.
There’s a longer pause this time. Long enough that I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
Then:
Unknown Number: That seems fair. I could say the same about you.
Something twists pleasantly in my chest.
Karina watches me read it and shakes her head. “You’re gone.”
“I’m right here.”
“Physically, yes. Spiritually? You’re halfway into a strangers-to-lovers arc.”
I choke on my drink. “Please stop speaking.”
She laughs, and I laugh too, but I still look down at the phone again almost immediately.
Unknown Number: What’s your friend’s name?
I blink.
Karina leans in. “Ooh.”
“No,” I say automatically.
She points at the screen. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not giving personal details to a random number.”
“That is very sensible.”
“I’m a sensible person.”
She lets that statement hang in the air long enough to make me glare.
I type: I’m trying to maintain at least the illusion of caution.
Unknown Number: Smart. Keep that.
That one makes me pause too. I like that more than I want to.
Karina notices my face again. “That was a good answer, wasn’t it?”
I nod.
“See?” she says. “Might not be a serial killer.”
“An incredibly low bar.”
“It’s the bar we have.”
I smile and shake my head, then type: I’ll let her know Mystery Number has approved my judgment.
Unknown Number: Mystery Number is flattered by the title.
I stare at that and laugh softly under my breath.
Karina studies me for another moment, then lifts her glass. “Well. Whoever they are.”
I pick up mine too. “To terrible ideas,” I say.
“To unexpectedly good ones,” she corrects.
We clink glasses.