In between sundays

Thoughts sinking

Chapter Ten

That Sunday night, I didn’t plan to talk to him. It just happened—like something quietly pulled me toward it.

Philemon.

I’d seen his name before, but never thought much of it. Then somehow, one simple message turned into a full conversation. Maybe I just needed to talk. Maybe it was curiosity. I honestly don’t know.

He said he knew me as “the quiet girl who finds it hard to use polysyllabic words.”

I laughed when I read that line—it felt strange, almost intimate, to be recognised like that. Then he added, “But here you are, kinda making my night. I’m supposed to be watching a movie by now, but something here on w******p is keeping me company.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just replied lightly:

“I literally just started talking to you because of something I know nothing about me, likewise do you.”

I didn’t even know what that meant, honestly. I just wanted to sound composed, like someone who didn’t overthink every word.

We talked about church, about how we’d probably only spoken once—back when I’d asked him for Bible passages. He laughed and said, “Thank God you remembered.”

And for some reason, that laughter made me smile.

He teased me about being quiet in church—how after service, when they say ‘greet your brothers and sisters,’ I’d just walk off like I was allergic to eye contact.

He wasn’t lying. I’d always done that. I didn’t even think anyone noticed.

“Lol, I’m a shy person,” I typed.

He said, “Indeed a shy person. Talk for another day. Why is it so?”

That question hit differently. So I told him the truth.

That I’d lost many things because of my shyness. That one time, it even cost me a presentation grade. I told him how my hands had trembled in front of the class, how my voice shook until the words vanished. I failed that part—but studied like crazy for the exams, pulled an all-nighter, and still got a C.

He said, “Nahh, you weren’t stupid. It was just that the people around you didn’t care.”

I paused. I wasn’t used to people saying things like that—things that actually tried to understand.

Then he added playfully, “You shy around me? That can never happen. I don’t have shy friends.”

I laughed out loud this time.

He went on, “They all change their algorithm whenever they’re around me.”

I said, “Yeah, you’re really friendly and jovial from what I’ve seen.”

He replied, “I pray you’ll encounter one Philux in school this semester.”

That made me smile without realising it.

“Amen,” I said. “ASUU, do this one—we’re still on strike.”

He laughed again. “Maybe you’re surrounded by people like yourself.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe I’d built a small world that mirrored me—quiet, safe, and lonely.

We kept chatting. About school, friends, and life. About nothing and everything.

It was the kind of conversation that doesn’t really solve anything but makes your night feel softer somehow.

By the time I dropped my phone, it was past midnight. My room was silent, and I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the messages in my head.

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe not.

But that night, I realised something small and strange—

sometimes, connection doesn’t need a reason.

It just happens.