Unspoken Frequencies
1655 Words
Sunday – 7:20 PM
Ray had never been the type to linger on a conversation after it ended. He was, by nature and by training, efficient. When meetings concluded, he moved on. When arguments were made, he filed them away. Even when friendships fizzled out over time zones or priorities, he didn’t stew—he adapted.
But tonight, he checked his phone again.
Nothing.
He tossed it on the couch. Walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened it again as if something had changed in the last five seconds. It hadn’t. A sad half-jar of chili garlic sauce and leftover takeout mocked his inability to function like a normal adult on weekends.
Back to the living room. He picked up the phone again.
Still nothing.
Ray stared at the home screen—9:41 PM. The last message he sent to Isabelle had been at 6:02 PM.
Three hours and change. No reply.
He wasn’t panicking. Just... monitoring.
Casually. Like any grown man would when he wasn’t refreshing the same chat thread every twenty minutes and convincing himself he wasn’t.
He leaned back, sighing.
Yesterday had been unexpected. He hadn’t even known Isabelle liked Haruki Murakami. Hadn’t expected her to recommend a poetry collection on tax ethics, of all things, or to make it sound interesting. Or the way she lit up when explaining why the rule against perpetuities was the hill she’d die on, probably with a color-coded binder in hand.
The café had been warm. The conversation warmer. Her laughter still lingered in his ears like a favorite playlist he didn’t realize he’d missed.
And now… radio silence.
He reached for his phone again.
Nothing.
He tossed it on the coffee table for the third time, then immediately regretted it. What if she had replied and it was delayed by signal? What if she was typing right now?
He picked it up again.
Nope.
Ray stared at the thread, shook his head, and muttered to no one, “You’re pathetic.”
Isabelle sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, reviewing supplier compliance summaries while half-listening to a true crime podcast in the background. Her phone buzzed against her pillow.
She glanced at the screen and saw Ray’s name.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
She hadn’t meant to leave him hanging.
She’d seen the message earlier while brushing her teeth and then got distracted by laundry, then emails, then a call from her mom asking why she wasn’t married yet (again), then dinner she burned, and now—finally—a quiet moment.
A warmth settled over her chest as she reread his earlier message.
There was something… unspoken in it. Or maybe she was imagining things. But it felt like the kind of message someone sends when they’re thinking about you but aren’t sure if they should say it.
She smiled and finally typed:
Isabelle (9:52 PM): Yes. But I also finished two books, half a Netflix season, and a tub of ice cream. Productivity looks different on weekends.
She hesitated, then hit send.
Seconds later:
Ray (9:53 PM): I approve. Work-life balance is a myth, but snacks are real.
Isabelle (9:54 PM): Words to live by.
There was a pause. Then:
Ray (9:56 PM): Thanks again—for Saturday. I haven’t laughed that much in a while.
Isabelle read it twice. Her heart did something weird. Not dramatic—but enough to notice.
She typed slowly.
Isabelle (9:58 PM): Me neither. It was… nice.
She hit send and sat back, watching the three little dots that signaled he was typing again. Then they disappeared.
Then came back.
Then disappeared again.
She waited.
But no reply came—not yet.
Still, she smiled.
Because sometimes silence wasn’t awkward.
Sometimes, it was anticipation.
He stared at her last message longer than he intended. He hadn’t realized how much he liked talking to her until he had no real reason to.
And maybe… that was reason enough.
He leaned back on the couch, letting the quiet of his apartment settle around him. The city outside was muffled—honking cars, the occasional bark of a street dog, the whir of life continuing just out of reach. But all Ray could focus on was the way her words sat on his screen, warm and simple.
Me neither. It was… nice.
He checked his phone again. No typing dots. No new reply. Just the soft glow of the message, frozen in its perfect, unresolved pause.
He realized he’d been checking his phone every twenty minutes since late afternoon. Telling himself it was to follow up on the audit files or to track a pending case brief. Lying to himself in small, habitual ways.
It wasn’t like him. None of this was.
And yet… there she was. In the middle of his thoughts. In the silence between jazz tracks. In the space where legal arguments usually lived.
He debated texting again. Something light. Something clever.
Or maybe something honest.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, and stared up at the ceiling.
God help me, he thought, I’m in trouble.
And for the first time in a very long while, he didn’t mind the feeling.
He stared at her last message longer than he intended. He hadn’t realized how much he liked talking to her until he had no real reason to.
And maybe… that was reason enough.
He leaned back on the couch, letting the quiet of his apartment settle around him. The city outside was muffled—honking cars, the occasional bark of a street dog, the whir of life continuing just out of reach. But all Ray could focus on was the way her words sat on his screen, warm and simple.
Me neither. It was… nice.
He checked his phone again. No typing dots. No new reply. Just the soft glow of the message, frozen in its perfect, unresolved pause.
He realized he’d been checking his phone every twenty minutes since late afternoon. Telling himself it was to follow up on the audit files or to track a pending case brief. Lying to himself in small, habitual ways.
It wasn’t like him. None of this was.
And yet… there she was. In the middle of his thoughts. In the silence between jazz tracks. In the space where legal arguments usually lived.
He debated texting again. Something light. Something clever.
Or maybe something honest.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, and stared up at the ceiling.
God help me, he thought, I’m in trouble.
And for the first time in a very long while, he didn’t mind the feeling.
He sat in that quiet a moment longer, eyes unfocused on the ceiling, hand twitching beside the phone.
Then he gave in.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the message thread. With a sigh, he tapped her name and hit the call button before he could overthink it.
She answered on the third ring. "Ray?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey. Sorry if it’s late. I just… I wanted to talk more. About the Saturday café project thing."
A pause. Then her voice, warm and amused. "You called me at 11:30 PM to discuss café logistics?"
"Absolutely," he said. "I’m a professional."
She laughed, a low, genuine sound that made him grin despite himself. "Well, Mr. Professional, what exactly did you need to clarify?"
He hesitated, then decided to lean into the truth. "I think I just wanted to hear your voice again."
There was a beat of silence. Then softer: "Me too."
And just like that, the space between them felt a little smaller. A little less uncertain.
They talked for nearly an hour—about the café, the project, their odd coworkers, the weird smell in the 14th-floor hallway. It wasn’t about the details.
It was about presence.
And for once, neither of them needed an excuse to want it.
The conversation meandered—how all the good ones do. From the café’s weird art deco light fixtures to why Isabelle insisted on putting hot sauce on everything except coffee (which Ray pretended to be horrified by), to a debate on whether lawyers or accountants were more prone to caffeine-induced delusions.
"And you actually name your spreadsheets?" Ray asked, amused.
Isabelle yawned, half-muffled by her blanket. "Only the important ones. There's a ‘Sir Taxalot’ and a ‘Ledger Gaga.’"
Ray laughed. "That's impressive and slightly worrying."
"You're just jealous your contract drafts don’t have flair."
"Oh, mine do. ‘Clause Encounters of the Third Kind’ says hello."
That earned a sleepy laugh from her end, the kind that curled in his chest like a warmth he hadn’t invited but wasn’t ready to let go of.
But then she yawned again—longer this time.
Ray’s tone softened. "I should let you sleep."
"I’m fine," she murmured, but her voice betrayed her exhaustion.
"You've got early classes, and I’ve already stolen your Sunday night."
"You didn’t steal anything." Another yawn. “It was... nice.”
He hesitated. Then said it anyway.
"I liked hearing your voice. More than I expected."
The silence that followed was the good kind—the kind that meant something had landed exactly where it should.
Then she replied, drowsy and sincere, “Me too, Ray. I’ll sleep better now.”
Ray smiled into the phone. “Good. Sweet dreams, Isabelle.”
“Good night, Ray.”
He didn’t hang up immediately. Neither did she.
But when the call finally ended, Ray found himself still holding the phone to his ear, grinning like a teenager with a crush and wondering how someone could turn a Sunday into something that felt like the beginning of a story.
And this time, he didn’t even pretend to care that he was in trouble.
- Writer
