Ep 2: 2:17AM
900 Words
2:17AM
The notification came at 2:17AM.
Maya was still awake. She always was. Her room in Surulere was quiet except for the hum of her neighbor’s generator and the blue light of her phone on her face.
`@eli.visuals: You up?`
Her thumb hovered. 2:17AM in Lagos was 9:17PM for him. San Francisco was behind her by seven hours. He should be editing. She should be asleep.
She typed anyway.
`Maya: ...yeah. Insomnia or editing?`
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
`@eli.visuals: Editing. Couldn’t look at your test shot without seeing 20 things I’d change.`
Maya sat up against her wall. The sheet pooled at her waist.
`Maya: That sounds like a polite way of saying it was bad.`
`@eli.visuals: No. It sounds like a photographer who can’t stop looking at his model.`
Her breath caught. She read it twice.
`Maya: You don’t have a model.`
`@eli.visuals: I do now. She just doesn’t know it yet.`
She laughed, but it came out shaky. Outside, a bike roared past. Lagos never really slept.
`Maya: You’re in San Francisco. I’m in Surulere. That’s not a shoot. That’s a fantasy.`
`@eli.visuals: Fantasies start somewhere. Mine started with a comment.`
Silence for a full minute. Maya stared at his profile picture. Black and white. Sharp jaw. Eyes that looked like he saw too much.
`@eli.visuals: Send me something. Anything. Not posed. Not for IG. Just you. Right now.`
Maya’s chest felt tight. She wasn’t a girl who did what men asked at 2AM. But he wasn’t asking like a man. He was asking like… an artist.
She flipped her camera to selfie mode. No filter. Hair in a messy bun. One eye half-closed from tiredness. The glow of her screen the only light. She didn’t smile.
She sent it.
The dots took forever.
`@eli.visuals: ...`
`@eli.visuals: You look real.`
`Maya: That’s the worst thing you could say to a model.`
`@eli.visuals: Good. I’m not looking for a model.`
Maya pulled the blanket up to her chin. Her heart was stupid. Fast.
`Maya: Then what are you looking for?`
`@eli.visuals: Someone who doesn’t flinch when I see them.`
Another pause. Then a new message. Not text. A voice note. 8 seconds.
She pressed play, and put her phone to her ear.
His voice was lower than she expected. Tired, rough at the edges. American accent, but soft. Like he was speaking just to her.
“Hey, Maya. It’s 2:21AM here. The city’s quiet. I just wanted to say… don’t delete that picture. Keep it. You look… seen.”
The voice note ended.
Maya played it again. And again. On the third time, she closed her eyes.
`Maya: You sound far.`
`@eli.visuals: I am. But you don’t feel far right now.`
`Maya: That’s dangerous to say.`
`@eli.visuals: I know. Do you want me to stop?`
She should have said yes. She should have said `goodnight` and blocked him and gone to sleep like a sensible 18-year-old.
Instead she typed:
`Maya: No.`
`@eli.visuals: Okay. Then tell me something real. Why are you awake at 2AM in Lagos?`
Maya looked at her ceiling. Water stains in the shape of a continent.
`Maya: Because during the day everyone wants something from me. My sister wants money. My aunt wants me to be quiet. i********: wants me to be pretty. At 2AM… no one wants anything.`
`@eli.visuals: At 2AM I want you to breathe.`
She did. Shaky.
`Maya: Your turn. Why are you awake at 9PM in San Francisco?`
`@eli.visuals: Because during the day I shoot campaigns. Faces that don’t mean anything. At night I edit. And tonight I found a face that means something.`
`Maya: You’re going to make me believe you.`
`@eli.visuals: I’m not trying to make you believe anything. I’m trying to see if you believe yourself.`
Maya didn’t answer for a long time. When she did, her fingers were cold.
`Maya: I don’t.`
`@eli.visuals: Then let me. For a while.`
2:34AM.
`@eli.visuals: Send me another one.`
`Maya: Eli…`
`@eli.visuals: Please. Not pretty. Real.`
She took it. This time her eyes were open. No smile. Just her. Tired. Unbothered. Surulere behind her.
He replied in 12 seconds.
`@eli.visuals: That’s the one.`
`Maya: You can’t keep doing this.`
`@eli.visuals: Doing what?`
`Maya: Making me feel… like I’m not alone in my room.`
`@eli.visuals: You’re not.`
And then, because he was reckless or because he was honest, he sent one too.
It was him. Same lighting. Desk lamp. Dark room. Camera on the table. He wasn’t smiling either. He looked… tired. Human.
`@eli.visuals: 2:36AM. San Francisco. This is what alone looks like. You don’t look like that.`
Maya saved it. She told herself it was for reference. For the story.
It wasn’t.
`Maya: We should sleep.`
`@eli.visuals: We should.`
`Maya: ...`
`@eli.visuals: But we won’t, will we?`
`Maya: No.`
`@eli.visuals: Good.`
They talked until 3:12AM. About cameras. About Lagos rain. About the way San Francisco fog made everything look like a secret. About how both of them hated being looked at, but didn’t mind being seen.
When she finally said `gn`, he replied instantly.
`@eli.visuals: gn Maya. Dream in color. I’ll be here when you wake up.`
She put her phone down. Her face was warm. Her room was still dark. But for the first time in months, 2AM didn’t feel empty.
It felt… like someone was in the room with her.
Even if he was 9,000 miles away.
- Writer
