One Month, One Moment

This story unfolds in the quiet moments before midnight — where unsaid feelings, soft lights, and small truths quietly collide.

I met Liam online. It wasn’t anything dramatic — just a reply to a meme, a few back-and-forth comments, and then we ended up in each other’s DMs. At first, it was casual. He was funny, dry-humored, and called me "bro" like it was my name. I didn’t mind. It was easy to talk to him, easier than I expected. Soon, texting him became part of my routine. Morning updates, random thoughts during the day, memes, photos of what we were eating, and late-night thoughts that felt too heavy to keep inside.

It didn’t take long before I realized I had a crush on him. It crept up on me quietly, like how the sky darkens before you even notice the sun's gone. I never told him, of course. He wasn’t that type. Or maybe, I wasn’t. He talked about other girls sometimes — never in a flirty way, just casually. He didn’t know how my heart sank every time.

There were nights I stayed awake rereading our conversations, laughing at his dry remarks, wondering if he meant something more by the way he said certain things. Sometimes, he’d say “you’re easy to talk to,” and I’d overanalyze it for hours. Once, he sent a voice note of him humming a song and I played it on loop like a teenage girl from a coming-of-age film. I guess I was one, in some small way.

One month passed. We were still texting every day. I wondered if I was just someone to pass the time with, if he’d stop replying eventually. But then, one night, he said he was coming to my city for a few days. "Let’s meet up," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. My heart raced as I typed back something casual.

The day of the meeting felt unreal. I stared at my wardrobe for an hour, trying on clothes that didn’t feel like me. I finally settled on something simple — a loose shirt and jeans — and tried not to overthink. I arrived at the station ten minutes early. My palms were sweaty, heart knocking against my ribs. When he finally showed up, scrolling on his phone like he had all the time in the world, I felt a strange calm settle over me.

We met around 8 PM. He looked up, smiled, and that lopsided grin made my stomach twist. We hugged — briefly, awkwardly — and walked to a small place I liked for dinner. The conversation stumbled at first, like we were trying to match voices to the versions of each other we had built in our heads. But after a while, it felt okay. Normal, even.

He looked the same. Sharp jaw, messy hair, eyes that looked half-asleep but aware. I caught myself staring too long sometimes. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and pretended not to. After dinner, I asked if he wanted to walk a bit. I loved long walks, especially at night. He shrugged, said sure, and followed.

The city was quieter than usual, lights flickering across closed shops, a soft breeze curling through the streets. We walked side by side, sometimes brushing shoulders, and I wished I had the nerve to hold his hand. We talked about everything and nothing — music, favorite movies, his job, a bit about mine. Then, somewhere between a convenience store and a tiny bridge over a canal, he mentioned a girl from work. "She’s cool," he said. "Like... easy to vibe with."

I don’t know what came over me.

"You know… I love you," I said.

He stopped walking. I kept going, just a few steps ahead before I turned around. He looked at me, eyebrows slightly raised, mouth parting like he was about to say something.

"I know you don’t see me romantically," I added quickly, with a laugh that scraped against my throat. "Like, I’m not your type and I’m ugly. Don’t worry, I also don’t like myself."

I laughed again, bouncing on my heels a little, trying to act like I hadn’t just flayed myself open.

"I just wanted to let you know," I said and turned around again, walking ahead like I didn’t care, like my heart wasn’t twisting up inside me.

He didn’t say anything. I heard his footsteps behind me after a few seconds, soft and hesitant. We didn’t talk about it again that night. He brought up something else — a story about a friend and a bad haircut — and I followed along, grateful and aching at the same time.

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I replayed the moment over and over — the way his face looked, the silence after, the softness in his eyes, or maybe I imagined it. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if I had ruined something.

The next day, we met again. I acted like nothing had happened. I laughed at his dry jokes, teased him about how he folded his pizza before eating it. I didn’t bring up the night before, and neither did he. It was easier that way. Safer.

We went to a small art gallery that day — one I’d never been to before. It was quiet and almost empty. He stood in front of a painting for a long time, something abstract and chaotic, and said, "I don’t get it." I laughed. "Maybe it’s not about getting it. Maybe it’s just about feeling something." He looked at me then, for a second longer than necessary. I looked away first.

Later, we sat on the steps of a bookstore, sharing a drink. I told him about a childhood memory — how I used to collect pretty stones and give them names. He looked amused and asked, "Did they have personalities too?" I nodded. "Some were dramatic. Some shy. One was always tired." He chuckled. "Sounds familiar."

That night, we didn’t walk. We just sat on a rooftop I knew, legs dangling over the edge, looking out at the sea of buildings and orange streetlights. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… full. Of things unsaid. Of thoughts we were both too scared to say.

The second night passed, and then came the third. His flight was in the morning, and I offered to take him to the airport. We didn’t speak much during the ride. I wondered if he would say something. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt me. Maybe he didn’t know how. I tried not to expect anything.

We stood near the boarding gate, people rushing around us with suitcases and sleepy eyes. Liam turned to me, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

"You’re not ugly," he said.

I blinked.

"You’re… cute," he added, with a small chuckle, eyes not quite meeting mine.

And then he walked away.

I stood there, confused, heart thudding, mouth slightly open like it forgot how to form words. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t even have time to ask.

An hour later, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Liam.

Where do you wanna go for our first date?

I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I smiled. Not the kind I forced out to make people comfortable — a real one, small and warm, like the first sunbeam sneaking through closed curtains. Maybe I wasn’t dreaming after all.

I typed a reply, then erased it. Then typed again. My fingers hovered over the send button.

"Somewhere quiet," I finally wrote. "Where I can be with you peacefully."

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

"Sounds perfect."

My heart did something strange — not the painful twist I was used to, but something lighter. I stared at the screen, wondering if this was real, if I could trust it. I didn’t know what would happen next. Maybe it would fizzle. Maybe it would grow. But for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to find out.

And just like that, the world felt a little softer.