I didn't expect his message. Not because it was impossible, but because some names, once buried under time and distance, feel like they belong to a life you've already outgrown. Seeing Luca's name light up my phone pulled me back into a space I thought had closed quietly behind me.
"Hey. How's life treating you?"
Simple. Casual. Friendly. Nothing about it suggested intent beyond conversation, yet I stared at the screen longer than I meant to. Five years was a long time to disappear from someone's daily world. Long enough to forget rhythms, habits, and reasons. Long enough to pretend certain chapters never existed.
I typed, erased, then typed again. "Hey. I'm okay. Just taking things one day at a time. How are you?"
His reply came faster than I expected. "I'm good. Busy mostly. Work, adjusting, learning a new place. But I thought of you and figured I'd say hi."
I leaned back against my pillow, phone warm in my hand. He had always known how to sound easy, like conversation was something that flowed naturally for him. Back in the ghetto, it was the same. He spoke without urgency, without force, like patience was something he carried effortlessly.
"That's nice of you," I replied. "It has been a while."
"Too long," he wrote. "Feels strange not talking after knowing each other for so long."
I smiled despite myself. Knowing. That word sat gently between us, not demanding explanation. We had known each other in fragments passing conversations, familiar faces, shared spaces. He was my senior brother's best friend, always around, always present, always watching from a careful distance I pretended not to notice.
When my family left the ghetto, I thought the past would loosen its grip. New city. New routines. New silence. Yet here it was, resurfacing through a screen, calm and unannounced.
Our messages stayed light at first. Safe. He asked about my family, whether we had settled properly, if I liked where we lived now. I answered without detail, choosing simplicity over depth. He didn't push.
"I still remember when your brother let you use his phone all the time," Luca sent. "You were always scrolling through pictures."
That made me laugh quietly. "That phone practically lived with me. He only took it back when he needed it."
"I figured," he replied. "You were the unofficial keeper of memories."
I hesitated, then typed, "I actually still have some of those old photos."
"Really?" he responded almost immediately. "From back then?"
"Yes. Mostly group pictures. You guys hanging out."
"Wow," he wrote. "That feels like another lifetime."
I scrolled through my gallery before I could overthink it. Old images surfacedncarefree faces, dusty streets, moments frozen before life scattered us in different directions. I selected one and sent it.
A few seconds passed. Then: "I can't believe you still have this."
"You all looked happy," I replied. "I didn't think to delete them."
"I'm glad you didn't," he said. "Seeing this reminds me of where everything started."
Where everything started. The words landed softly but stayed with me. I didn't respond right away. Instead, I locked my phone and stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of my room. It was strange how something so small could reopen a sense of familiarity I hadn't prepared for.
When I replied, I kept it neutral. "Time changes a lot."
"Yes," he agreed. "But not everything."
That was the first moment I felt itna subtle shift beneath the friendliness. Not pressure. Not expectation. Just awareness. I reminded myself that conversation didn't mean commitment, and memory didn't mean intention.
Days passed, and our chats became something I found myself anticipating without admitting it. He messaged in the mornings sometimes, other times late at night. Always polite. Always measured. Never crossing lines I hadn't drawn aloud.
"How was your day?" he'd ask.
"Busy," I'd answer. "Yours?"
"Long, but productive."
We talked about ordinary things work stress, weather differences, small frustrations. He never rushed the conversation forward. He let it unfold naturally, which somehow made it harder to define.
One evening, after a long pause between messages, he wrote, "Can I ask you something?"
I stared at that sentence longer than I should have.
"Sure," I typed carefully.
"Back then," he continued, "I always felt like you were avoiding me. I never understood why."
My fingers hovered again. The past pressed closer, but I wasn't ready to let it speak. Not yet. I chose honesty without truth.
"I was just guarded," I replied. "I needed to be."
He didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. Didn't demand explanation.
"I get that," he said. "I just want you to know, I've always respected you."
I read that message twice. Respect was a reassuring word. One that softened edges without promising too much. I let it sit between us, unanswered, as the night stretched quietly on.
And somewhere in that silence, expectation began to form not of what would happen, but of what might.
I didn't reply immediately. Not because I didn't know what to say, but because some words deserve space before they're accepted. Respect. It was easy to say. Easier to believe when distance had softened memories and time had polished intentions.
"Thank you," I eventually typed. "That means a lot."
And it did, in a quiet way. Respect had always been the one thing I guarded fiercely, the one thing I feared losing without realizing it. In the ghetto, respect was fragile. Once broken, it became a story others told about you, one you couldn't rewrite.
Our conversation drifted again, away from the past and back into safe territory. He talked about where he lived now, how strange it felt starting over in a country that didn't know his history. I listened, asking questions that showed interest without revealing too much of myself.
"Sometimes," he wrote, "I miss familiarity. People who knew me before life got complicated."
I understood that feeling too well. "New beginnings look good from the outside," I replied. "But they're lonely at first."
"Yes," he said. "Exactly that."
There was comfort in being understood without explanation. We didn't need to elaborate. The shared pause between messages felt intentional, like neither of us wanted to rush the moment.
Later that night, he sent another message. "Do you remember how your brother never smiled in photos?"
I smiled to myself. "He said smiling made him look unserious."
"And yet," Luca replied, "he was always the serious one."
"He still is," I said. "Some things really don't change."
We laughed about small memories, harmless ones that didn't carry weight or consequence. I noticed how careful he was with his words, never stepping into territory that might make me uncomfortable. It felt deliberate, as if he was trying to prove something without stating it outright.
Over the next few days, the messages became more frequent. Not overwhelming, but consistent enough to become familiar. Morning greetings. Short check-ins. Occasional voice notes that carried warmth without expectation.
"You don't have to reply immediately," he told me once. "I know life gets busy."
I appreciated that. There was no pressure to perform, no silent demand for attention. Just space. And yet, I found myself replying sooner than I intended, smiling when I saw his name appear.
One afternoon, he sent a photo. It was of a street near where he lived quiet, clean, unfamiliar.
"This is where I walk when I need to clear my head," he wrote.
I stared at the image longer than necessary. "It looks peaceful."
"It is," he replied. "But sometimes I miss the noise."
"The chaos?" I asked.
"The feeling of being surrounded by people who know you," he clarified.
I didn't respond right away. Instead, I thought about the ghetto—the noise, the closeness, the lack of privacy. How familiarity had once felt suffocating, not comforting.
"Peace can be loud too," I eventually typed.
He reacted with a laughing emoji. "That's true. You always had a way of seeing things differently."
Always. The word slipped in unnoticed, like an assumption I wasn't sure I wanted to claim.
That evening, I went through my phone again, scrolling through old photos. Faces I hadn't seen in years. Moments frozen before consequences existed. I wondered what Luca saw when he looked at those same memories. Regret? Nostalgia? Something unresolved?
"You know," he messaged later, "I've always admired how strong you are."
I frowned slightly. "You barely know me."
"I know enough," he replied. "You kept your boundaries when others didn't. That says a lot."
The message unsettled me, not because it was wrong, but because it touched something I hadn't named aloud. Boundaries were invisible to most people. The fact that he noticed them felt both reassuring and dangerous.
"I just did what I had to do," I said.
"And that's exactly it," he responded. "You knew yourself."
I placed my phone face down on the bed and exhaled slowly. Compliments had a way of slipping past defenses when they felt earned. I reminded myself that words were easy, especially across distance.
Later, he asked, "Do you ever regret leaving?"
I thought carefully before answering. "No. I needed to grow."
"I'm glad you did," he wrote. "You deserve more than the life we knew."
That sentence lingered longer than the others. It sounded sincere, but sincerity didn't guarantee safety. Still, I didn't shut the door.
As days turned into weeks, I noticed the subtle rhythm forming between us. He never rushed. Never disappeared. Never demanded. It was steady in a way that felt intentional.
One night, after a particularly long conversation, he sent a final message before going offline. "I hope you know I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to be present, however you allow."
I read it twice. Then a third time.
"I know," I replied. "Let's just take things slowly."
"I wouldn't want it any other way," he said.
I lay awake long after the screen went dark, thoughts drifting between caution and curiosity. Nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. And yet, something had begun.
Not love. Not commitment. Just the quiet beginning of trust.