The Man Who Spoke Softly
1003 Words
I didn’t expect anything from that message.
At least… that’s what I told myself.
Because after Mussa, I had learned not to give meaning to things too quickly.
Not to hope too fast.Not to assume intention.Not to build stories in my head before knowing the truth.
But still…
I opened the message.
And read it again.
“Hey… I saw your picture with Derick. Can I get to know you?”
And beneath it…
“I’m Mathias.”
I stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Not because it was special.
But because it was simple.
And simplicity, after confusion, feels like curiosity.
I replied slowly.
“Yes… who is this?”
There was no immediate response.
I almost forgot about it.
Until my phone vibrated again.
“Good. I was hoping it was you.”
That sentence made me pause.
Not because it was romantic.
But because it was confident.
Too confident for someone who had just seen a back-facing photo of me.
I frowned slightly at my screen.
Then replied:
“Why?”
And that was the beginning.
At first, Mathias spoke softly.
Not in volume—but in tone.
There was something about the way he typed.
Like he was smiling through the messages.
Like everything was slightly playful in his world.
“Because I’ve been arguing with my friend all day.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“About what?”
“Whether the maroon girl was taken or not.”
I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
A small laugh.
But real.
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
Then a pause.
“I lost the argument, by the way.”
Something about the way he spoke made things feel light.
Not heavy.Not complicated.Not emotionally demanding.
Just… easy.
And I didn’t realize how dangerous “easy” can feel after emotional exhaustion.
We started talking more.
Not instantly deep.
Not emotional.
Just conversations that slowly stretched into longer conversations.
He had humor.
A lot of it.
The kind that didn’t feel forced.
The kind that came naturally.
“Your friend Derick looks like someone who eats jokes for breakfast,” he said one day.
I laughed.
“He actually thinks he’s funny.”
“He is,” Mathias replied. “Dangerously so.”
There was something about him that felt different from Mussa.
Mussa was quiet.
Controlled.
Careful.
Mathias was expressive.
Open.
Warm in a way that felt effortless.
He didn’t disappear for days.
He didn’t leave messages hanging.
He didn’t make me feel like I was asking for attention.
He gave it freely.
And that… felt like healing.
Or at least, it felt like what healing should feel like.
At work, I started smiling more again.
Not because anything had changed externally…
But because internally, something had softened.
Even Linah noticed.
“You are laughing again,” she said one afternoon.
I shrugged slightly.
“It’s just someone funny texting me.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Be careful with funny men.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You are always warning me about everything.”
She didn’t smile this time.
“I’m serious, Ralisa. Funny men are sometimes the most dangerous.”
I laughed it off.
Because at that moment…
I didn’t want seriousness.
I wanted peace.
Mathias slowly became part of my routine.
A message in the morning.A joke during lunch.A random conversation at night.
Nothing intense.
Nothing defined.
Just presence.
And presence felt rare to me now.
One evening, he called.
It was unexpected.
I hesitated before picking up.
“Hello?”
His voice came through calm.
Warm.
Almost familiar already.
“So this is your voice,” he said.
I frowned slightly.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But not this soft.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t start.”
He laughed.
“I’m serious. You sound like trouble.”
That sentence should have meant nothing.
But it stayed with me longer than I expected.
Because I wasn’t used to being described like that.
Not after Mussa.
Not after silence.
Not after emotional distance.
We talked for almost an hour that night.
About random things.
Work.Food.Life.Jokes.
Nothing serious.
But something about it felt… safe.
And safety, after confusion, feels like love even when it isn’t.
But there were small things I didn’t notice at first.
Tiny things.
Subtle things.
The way he always steered conversations back to himself without making it obvious.
The way compliments came early.
The way he was always slightly “available.”
Too available.
Too consistent.
Too smooth.
But I ignored those thoughts.
Because after emotional starvation…
Attention feels like nourishment.
Even if you don’t question where it comes from.
One night, he said something that made me pause.
We were talking normally when he suddenly said:
“You seem like someone who gets attached easily.”
I frowned.
“Excuse me?”
He laughed softly.
“I’m not judging. I’m just observing.”
I stayed quiet for a moment.
Then replied:
“You don’t even know me.”
And there was a small pause.
Then he said:
“Not yet.”
That “not yet” should have been harmless.
But it wasn’t.
Because it carried confidence.
And confidence, when mixed with emotional timing, can feel like intention.
After that call, I sat quietly for a while.
Not overthinking.
Just feeling.
And I realized something uncomfortable.
I was smiling again.
Without forcing it.
Without effort.
And that scared me a little.
Not because I was happy…
But because I didn’t know him well enough to be this comfortable already.
But I didn’t stop.
Because comfort feels like medicine after pain.
Even when you don’t read the label.
That night, I received another message.
“I feel like you are the kind of person who makes people stay.”
I stared at it for a long time.
Then closed my phone.
And for the first time…
I didn’t know if that was a compliment.
Or a prediction.
- Writer
