EPISODE 3: THE TIME ZONE FIGHT
845 Words
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Day 3.
I woke up feeling good. Proud. We survived Day 2.
By 3pm that feeling was gone.
It started with a text at 2:14pm.
*Tariq: Can we do 8pm instead of 9pm tonight? Got a team dinner.*
I was in the middle of a customer. I typed back fast.
*Me: 8pm? But we said 9pm.*
*Me: I can do 8. Just didnāt expect it.*
He replied an hour later.
*Tariq: Yeah sorry. Itās work stuff. Important. 8 works right?*
8pm my time is 1pm his time. Heād be on his lunch break.
I stared at the message. My chest got tight in that way it does when you donāt want to be "the problem" but you also donāt want to pretend youāre fine.
*Me: Yeah 8 is fine.*
I told myself it was fine.
But at 7:55pm I was pacing. At 8:00pm my phone didnāt ring.
8:03pm. Nothing.
8:07pm.
I called him.
It went to voicemail.
"Hey, itās me. Just... calling. I guess dinner ran late? Text me."
I hung up and immediately felt stupid. Clingy.
At 8:20pm he called.
"Hey! Sorry sorry," he said the second I answered. He looked flustered, walking down a snowy street with his hood up. "Dinner went long. And then my boss wanted to talk after. Iām so sorry."
"Itās okay," I said. But my voice was flat.
"Itās not okay. I said 8. I messed up."
"You didnāt mess up. Work stuff happens."
Silence.
"You mad?" he asked.
"No."
"Morie. Are you mad?"
"Iām not mad. Iām just... tired."
And then it all came out.
"Iām tired of doing math every time I want to talk to you. Iām tired of 9pm being the only time we get. Iām tired of feeling like I have to be okay with whatever time works for you because youāre the one who left."
He stopped walking.
"I didnāt leave to hurt you."
"I know."
"Then why are you talking like that?"
"Because 8pm vs 9pm isnāt about the hour. Itās about... it feels like Iām the one adjusting to your new life and youāre just fitting me in."
The words hung there. Cold air between us through the screen.
He rubbed his face. "Thatās not fair."
"Isnāt it?"
"Iām working 10-hour days here. Iām trying to make this worth it for us. And now Iām getting in trouble for a team dinner?"
"Iām not in trouble. Iām just saying it hurts."
"Well it hurts me too, Morie! I hate that I canāt just come over after work. I hate that I missed your call. I hate that every conversation now feels like weāre keeping score."
We both went quiet.
Somewhere behind him a car honked. Somewhere behind me the fridge hummed.
"I donāt want to fight with you," I whispered.
"Me neither," he said. "God. Day 3 and weāre fighting about time zones."
A shaky laugh escaped me. "Thatās so dumb."
"It is dumb," he agreed.
He sat down on some steps. Snow on the railing next to him.
"Look," he said. "8pm wonāt happen again unless I warn you like, a day ahead. Deal?"
"Deal."
"And 9pm is still our time. Unless somethingās really urgent. And Iāll text if Iām going to be late. No more disappearing."
"Deal."
"And..." he hesitated. "Can you tell me when youāre upset? Instead of saying āitās fineā and then it isnāt?"
I nodded. "Can you not assume Iām okay just because I said āitās fineā?"
"Deal."
Another pause. But softer this time.
"I miss you," he said.
"I miss you too."
"I hate that we fought on a call."
"I hate that we had to fight at all."
He smiled a little. "Day 3. We fought. We made up. Thatās progress, right?"
"Thatās progress," I said.
We talked for 20 more minutes. Not about the fight. About nothing. About how his heater finally worked. About how I burned dinner because I was distracted.
At 8:50pm he said, "I should let you sleep."
"Yeah."
"Same time tomorrow? 9pm?"
"9pm."
"Iāll be there at 8:59."
"Iāll be there at 8:58."
We hung up.
I sat on the couch for a long time after. My face felt hot. My chest felt lighter.
Fighting over a phone sucks. You canāt reach out and touch the person. You canāt see their whole body language. Everything feels bigger.
But we didnāt let it turn into silence. We didnāt go to bed mad.
In my notebook I wrote:
_Day 3: We fought about time. We figured out how to fight better. 9pm is ours. 179 days to go._
At 11:02pm my phone buzzed.
*Tariq: Sorry again. And thank you for telling me. I donāt want you to ever feel like youāre second. Youāre first. Always.*
*Me: Youāre first for me too. Sleep well.*
*Tariq: I will. Because you said so.*
I fell asleep faster than the last two nights.
Day 3 was messy.
But messy is still together.
And if we could survive our first fight, maybe we could survive 179 more days.
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to be continued...*
- Writer
