The shared note grew slowly—one line at a time.
Luna would add to it during her breaks, typing quietly from the back row of a psychology lecture or in the corner of a café after class. Evan would open it late at night, after editing hours, reading her words like tiny windows into her life.
They didn't talk about it every day. There was no pressure to update, no timeline to follow. Just quiet faith that the other person would keep coming back to it.
And they did.
> "An apartment with plants on the balcony."
"Bookshelves taller than both of us."
"You cooking breakfast. Me burning toast."
"Saturdays with no plans. Just you and me."
Simple. Honest. Unpolished.
Some nights, Evan caught himself staring at the note longer than he should. The idea of a shared life wasn't just romantic anymore—it felt... possible. Not easy, but real.
---
One evening, Luna wrote:
> "What scares you the most about this distance?"
It sat there unanswered for a few hours.
Then Evan replied:
> "That I'll get used to it."
---
The next morning, Luna sent him a voice message—only six seconds long.
"I won't let that happen."
He played it twice. Then saved it.
---
They weren't rushing toward the future. But they were walking toward it—step by step. Some steps were quiet. Some were hesitant. But none were alone.
And in a world where distance often meant detachment, they were choosing something different:
To believe in "maybe soon."