She didn't really want to go out—she just needed to force herself out of bed.
That afternoon, she lay there with the curtains half-closed,
the room suspended in light that made staying feel almost permissible.
Her phone moved endlessly in her hand—
Uber Eats, Foodpanda,
then back to the dating app.
Her fingers moved with practiced ease.
Her heart felt quietly empty, like a room she hadn't truly inhabited for years.
She didn't believe in love.
She wasn't without a life.
During the day, she worked in English—meetings, emails, decisions—
appearing calm, competent, reliable on the other side of the screen.
Only at night did she open the dating app,
pushing herself to talk to strangers.
Not for love.
Just to remind herself
that she still existed in this city,
that she hadn't quietly disappeared into routine.
The world outside felt distant.
Not geographically, but linguistically, culturally—
separated by a transparent wall.
She hadn't truly gone out to meet anyone in a long time.
⸻
That evening, he wandered around a 7-Eleven.
Not because he couldn't decide,
but because his days all looked the same.
His days were fragmented—classes stacked across time zones,
with barely thirty-minute breaks in between.
Not enough time for a restaurant.
Just enough time for a convenience store,
for food that required no decisions
and no language.
So he always picked microwave meals—
cheap, fast, uncomplicated.
More importantly,
it meant he didn't have to sit in a restaurant
or struggle through ordering in another language.
He wasn't hungry.
He just wanted to walk outside,
leave the room,
and feel the city around him.
His phone stayed in his pocket, always on silent.
Notifications never on.
Not out of mystery,
but because he didn't want to be tied to any place,
any schedule, or anyone's expectations.
⸻
They met online.
Not on a romantic platform—
just an ordinary match, forgettable at first glance.
When she swiped on him, she didn't think much.
When he saw her profile, he had no expectations.
A place many foreigners had never even heard of.
She was a foreigner.
So was he.
In that town, they were both temporary.
They didn't talk much at first.
Sometimes a message or two a day.
Sometimes days passed with no reply.
They were both talking to other people.
Neither stood out.
Neither was prioritized.
She only checked the app at night.
He rarely opened it at all.
And yet, strangely, their conversation never disappeared.
No deep talks.
No flirting.
No plans for the future.
Just quietly existing in each other's presence, across the screen—
like two people in separate rooms,
lights turned off,
aware that the other was still awake.
What if they had met earlier?
Would things have been different?
She didn't know.
He didn't know.
Yet somewhere, a tiny thread of curiosity was already forming.
⸻
She observed herself in the faint reflection of the window.
Careful, meticulous, always calculating her steps before moving forward.
Her mind ran constantly, weighing choices, anticipating outcomes—
not out of anxiety,
but because she had learned to survive by controlling what she could.
He, on the other hand, moved through life like water—
reactive, fluid, adaptable, yet quietly guarded.
He didn't plan too much,
but he noticed everything,
cataloguing the world around him like it might disappear if he didn't pay attention.
Where she built walls, he built distance.
Where she rehearsed, he observed.
Yet both shared the same instinct: protect oneself,
even from what might feel like warmth.
And in that silent symmetry, a subtle tension emerged—
the kind that could spark a connection or quietly pull them apart.
Neither knew how it would unfold,
but both felt, deep down,
that meeting someone like this,
in a place they didn't belong,
was a risk worth noticing.