She wasn't looking for anything at the potluck-just a plate of food and maybe a seat far from small talk.
He wasn't supposed to be there either.
But then came the cream shirt, the chicken wings, and the kind of laughter that wraps around your ribcag...
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It was late. Not too late that a call would be inappropriate... but late enough that her heart skipped when the screen lit up with his name. No text. Just the soft ring of a voice call.
She hesitated for a second. Just long enough to remind herself to breathe.
Then—
"Hello?"
"Hey..."
His voice came through low and soft. A little rough around the edges. Like he hadn't said much all day, and now, suddenly, she was the one thing he needed to say something to.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked, almost apologetic.
"No," she replied, curling her knees to her chest. "Just... reading."
"Oh yeah? Something good?"
She paused. "Something familiar."
There was a smile in his silence. She could feel it.
"I was, uh..." he began, then stopped. "I was wondering if you'd be at Bible study this week."
She swallowed. "I'm not sure yet. Why?"
He was quiet for a moment. Not the uncomfortable kind—just the one where his words were waiting their turn.
"I think I got used to looking up and seeing you there," he said finally. "It's weird not to."
A flutter started somewhere in her ribcage.
"I missed your quiet commentary," he added, lighter this time. "And your snacks. But mostly the commentary."
She laughed, barely above a whisper. "Well, if snacks are your main motivator..."
"Nah," he said gently. "You are."
The pause stretched.
He didn't take it back. She didn't deflect.
"I'll think about coming," she said softly.
"Cool," he replied, voice warm. "No pressure."
But she heard it—in the way he lingered on the line a few seconds longer than needed. In the way he sighed like he didn't want to hang up, but didn't know how to stay either.
"I should let you get back to your book," he murmured.
"I'll probably just reread the same paragraph ten times now."
He chuckled. "I get that."
"Goodnight," she said, softer than before.
"Night, baby girl."
The call ended.
And she was left with the quiet... only now, it felt full instead of empty.
The sun peeked through her window like it knew something.
There was no rush in her limbs this time—no lingering ache of overthinking, no tightness behind her ribs. Just a soft kind of stillness. She sat at the edge of her bed, the blanket trailing from her shoulders like a hug she wasn't quite ready to shed. Her hoodie (the one that still smelled a little like him even though she told herself it didn't) hung loosely, sleeves swallowed by her fingers.
The kettle hummed in the kitchen, and the scent of lemon-ginger tea filled the air. A slow start. Gentle music playing from the speaker. The kind that didn't demand too much—just enough to keep the silence from folding in.
Her journal sat open in her lap, the pen already in her hand before she realized she'd picked it up.
Journal Entry – Morning light & lingering words.
There's something about the way his voice sounded last night.
Like softness tucked into syllables. Like the space between sentences was its own kind of conversation.
He didn't say he missed me, but it was there—in the pause before "I was wondering if you'd be at Bible study" and the way he didn't rush the goodbye.
And then the "baby girl."
It echoed through the quiet after the call ended. Not in a loud way. Just... warm. Familiar. Unshakable.
I told myself not to fall too fast this time. To be cautious with where I place my heart. But maybe I'm not falling.
Maybe I'm unfolding.
Maybe he is, too.
And if this is the pace we're setting—this dance of slow mornings and late-night phone calls—I think I could be okay with that.
She closed the journal gently, her fingers brushing the edge like she was sealing something sacred.
And as the morning unfolded around her—tea in hand, the hoodie still wrapped tight, and the faint echo of his voice in her ears—she allowed herself one quiet, tentative smile.
