Chapter 5: The Question Beneath
1073 Words
Days turned into weeks. The rhythm of their exchange became something quiet but essential—like watering a plant you weren’t sure would bloom, but still hoping.
Zace found himself looking forward to it. Their messages were not constant, but consistent. Not intense, but intentional. Each one felt like opening a small window in a room that had been dark too long.
Late one evening, after an unusually long thread of conversation about music and horror films, Zace felt a restless pull in his chest. He stared at the chat window for a while, watching the blinking cursor.
Then he typed it:
“Would you like to meet in person?”
He didn’t overthink it. But his heart knocked in his chest like it was locked out of something.
Lilith replied quickly.
“Are we going to have s*x?”
Zace froze.
He blinked at the message. Read it again. Then again.
It wasn’t that he didn’t understand—he did. What he didn’t expect was how directly she asked. No lilt. No emoji. No flirtation. Just brutal, clean honesty.
For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. That wasn’t his intention—at least not entirely. He wanted to see the person behind the words. To confirm she was real. That he was still real. The thought of physical intimacy had lingered at the edges of their conversations, sure, but this question felt like a challenge to his sincerity. Like she was asking him, “Are you here for connection or consumption?”
Still, he didn’t want to say no—not out of pressure, but because honesty deserved honesty.
So he typed:
“Is it required?”
Her reply came almost instantly.
“Hopefully, yes.”
A long silence followed. The cursor blinked like a heartbeat in stasis.
Zace stared at the screen, chest tightening. He wasn’t sure what he felt—desire? Pressure? Maybe both. Or maybe fear. Fear of being reduced again. Fear of being seen and touched, only to disappear afterward.
But then he typed:
“Alright.”
One word. Surrender, maybe. Or curiosity. Or just the need to stay close to whatever warmth this woman had shown him these past few weeks.
Less than five minutes later, Lilith sent a voice note.
He hesitated before pressing play. The icon glowed purple against the chat background.
A soft chuckle came through first, followed by her voice—light, teasing:
“HAHAHA it was a joke. I just wanted to see your reaction.”
Zace let out a short exhale—half laughter, half leftover panic. Relief washed over him, but it didn’t completely wash away the tension.
He replied:
“Lol… I had to say yes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get to meet you.”
He wasn’t entirely joking. Somewhere in that honest panic, he had been willing to trade a piece of himself just to keep the connection alive. That scared him more than he admitted.
But the air between them shifted again. The nerves unraveled into familiar humor. The tone reset—playful, careful, yet gently orbiting something deeper.
“So, when are you free?” Zace asked.
“I kinda want to watch Final Destination. You into those kinds of movies?”
Lilith replied:
“Sure, let’s set it up. But I heard that one’s not even that good.”
Zace smiled to himself. It didn’t matter. She could’ve said she wanted to watch paint dry—he just wanted to sit across from her, to prove to himself that she wasn’t a figment of some beautiful delusion.
He casually suggested a date.
“How about June 5?”
He sent it lightly. But beneath it, the date wasn’t light at all.
June 6 was his exit plan.
His marked day.
The day he had chosen months ago—the quiet suicide he’d planned like a secret ritual. No letters. No fanfare. Just fading.
He’d arranged everything. A neat goodbye. His last bank transactions already planned. Unsubscribed from life in subtle ways.
But then Lilith happened.
She wasn’t the miracle. She wasn’t the answer.
She was the pause.
A pause in the narrative of despair. A break in the loop. A human glitch.
So now, he thought—if I can just meet her. If I can see her once. Maybe that would be enough. Not salvation. Not repair. Just… enough. A final kindness before the curtain call.
He imagined them sitting side by side. Watching a mediocre horror film. Sharing a soda. Laughing over nothing.
He didn't dare hope for more.
But even a short flicker of warmth might be enough to soften the coldness of the next day.
A few minutes later, she replied.
“Can’t make it on the 5th. My daughter has a check-up.”
Then another message followed:
“Maybe the weekend instead?”
Zace stared at the screen.
His chest felt like it was closing.
He didn’t reply immediately. Not because he was angry—but because the math no longer made sense. The schedule of his death didn’t have room for delays. The date he had assigned for silence could not be negotiated.
The weekend would be too late.
By then, there would be no one left to meet.
His hands hovered over the keyboard, uncertain.
How do you say “I won’t be here anymore” without unraveling someone else’s peace?
How do you tell someone “You were almost enough to save me”?
You don’t.
So instead, he typed:
“Okay. Let’s see.”
A non-answer. A delay. A lie.
He knew she meant no harm. She was a mother first. Of course she’d prioritize her daughter. He even admired it—her balance, her boundaries. But time was something he no longer had the privilege to give.
He put his phone down.
Laid back on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling, the fan spinning slow circles above him. The same cheap fan that had witnessed his worst nights. The same ceiling he once wanted to hang from. Tonight, it just felt like sky he’d never reach.
He thought about how everything felt like a test.
Every day he stayed alive was a negotiation he never agreed to.
He closed his eyes.
And somewhere in that darkness, he heard her laugh again from the voice note.
That sound—careless, human—lingered longer than expected.
And for now, it kept him breathing.
- Writer
