ONE Night On His Bike

The CALL

*CHAPTER 5:

11:47 PM.

I was staring at his number.

The note was on my kitchen counter, corners curling slightly from the water on the lilies. The white lilies were in a cup of water now, catching the light from my fridge.

And my finger was hovering over _call_.

_It would be too desperate_, I thought. _What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he does and I have nothing to say? What if this ruins everything?_

It all started with just a bike ride. A lift in the rain because my car died and I was too stubborn to call for help.

One rule broken. Then another. Then flowers.

How did it end up like this? Flowers. Notes. Me, sitting in my pajamas on my cold kitchen floor at midnight, heart pounding like I was about to jump off a building.

My phone felt heavy in my hand. Warm from me gripping it too tight.

I almost put it down. Almost convinced myself to wait until morning. To be cool. To be normal.

Then I thought about him, on the other side of the city. Probably thinking I didn’t care. Thinking he was the only one feeling all this, the only one up at midnight wondering.

And I couldn’t let him think that. Not after "you’re special". Not after he sat outside my bank all week.

So I called.

My thumb shook when I pressed it.

One ring.

It echoed in my tiny apartment.

Two rings.

My stomach flipped.

At the other end, he was standing in his bathroom. Towel over his shoulder. Hair still damp from trying to wash the day off. About to go take a shower and pretend he wasn’t checking his phone every 30 seconds.

He looked at his phone. Unknown number.

Then he saw it. The last 4 digits from the note. The ones he’d written with a pen that was almost out of ink.

He answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

His voice. Rough. Tired. But there. Real. And for me.

I panicked. My brain went blank. "Hi. It’s me."

A beat. The sound of him breathing. "I know."

God he was calm. I was a complete mess.

"I... I got your note," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"I thought you would never call," he said quietly. Not accusing. Just honest. Like he’d already accepted it.

I laughed, even though my eyes were stinging and my throat was tight. *"I thought so too. But I couldn't help myself."*

Another pause. I could hear the city through his window. Distant cars. Then I heard water running in the background stop. Like he’d turned the shower off to give me his full attention.

"Good," he said. Soft. "Because I’ve been staring at my phone for two hours."

And just like that, the tension in my chest broke.

We talked.

About stupid stuff first, because stupid was safe. His bike and the weird noise it makes in third gear. My terrible car that breaks down every other month. The coffee shop by the bank that always gets my order wrong even though I go every day.

He laughed at that. A real laugh. I hadn’t heard it before.

Then not stupid stuff.

He told me about the first time he rode a bike. Scraped knees. His dad running behind him.

I told him about the sister I lost when I was 12. Not the same as his. But loss is loss, and grief recognizes grief.

He went quiet when I said that. The kind of quiet that listens. Then, "I’m sorry."

"Me too," I said. "For you too."

Hours passed. 1am. 2am. 3am.

We didn’t hang up. Not once.

I migrated from the kitchen floor to the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs.

I fell asleep somewhere between him telling me about his favorite road to ride at sunrise and me telling him about the book I was reading.

The phone was still pressed to my ear.

The last thing I heard before I drifted off was him, voice low, like he was afraid I’d wake up:

"Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere."

And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.

I fell asleep with lilies on my counter and his breathing in my ears.