The next morning, Ellie stood on her tiny apartment balcony with a cold mug of tea, watching people who looked like they had their lives together. One woman walked by in a power suit, talking into her AirPods with the confidence of someone who didn't cry while cooking noodles last night. Must be nice.
She picked up her phone and stared at the last message.
Max.
He had a name now. Which meant he had a face. A voice. A story. Even if she didn't know any of those things yet.
She'd met him through a mistake, but… was it?
At exactly 9:02 AM, her phone lit up.
Max:
If you had to be a breakfast food for the rest of your life, what would you be?
Ellie:
Is this a riddle or a weird kidnapping tactic.
Max:
Pure science. Important personality data.
Ellie:
Then definitely a croissant. Looks soft and sweet but actually full of air and existential dread.
Max:
That… was oddly poetic.
Max leaned back in his chair, phone in hand, untouched script glowing mockingly on his laptop screen. He hadn't written a scene in two weeks. His agent was circling like a shark made of email reminders.
But every time Ellie texted back, he felt like he was inside a story that mattered.
He didn't know what she looked like. Didn't know where she lived. All he knew was that her brain was made of glitter and nerves and something honest that people didn't say out loud anymore.
And maybe, just maybe he needed that.
That night, Ellie curled up on her couch, texting him again.
Ellie:
Can I ask you something weird?
Max:
You sent a love confession to the wrong number. We passed weird on Day One.
Ellie:
What if we're only honest with strangers because we know they'll eventually disappear?
A pause.
Max:
Or maybe we're only honest with strangers… because we hope they won't.
Ellie blinked at the screen.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt seen.
Not as the awkward girl behind the counter.
Not as the second choice.
Just… Ellie.