The blue light of Lena's phone screen sliced through the darkness of her bedroom. She squinted at the notification—a direct message from someone named CaptainAwkward on the Literary Debates forum. His profile picture looked like a golden retriever mid-sneeze—or maybe a mop having an existential crisis.
"Your take on romance tropes just murdered my childhood. We need to have words."
Lena rolled onto her back, holding the phone above her face. The glow lit up the water stains on her popcorn ceiling—the same ones her landlord kept swearing he'd fix. Three in the morning wasn't the ideal time for literary warfare, but insomnia had other plans.
She typed back:
"If you came looking for a gentle debate, you've clearly never met me."
Then she locked her phone and tossed it onto the rumpled duvet, where it joined the rest of her bad decisions.
Three Days Later
Lena's chipped coffee mug left a halo on her desk as she refreshed the forum page. She told herself she wasn't waiting for a reply. The autumn sunlight slicing through her apartment windows was too honest for that kind of lie.
Then—ping.
CaptainAwkward had replied to your comment.
Hot coffee sloshed over her wrist."Damn it."
His response was longer than she expected—three paragraphs meticulously dismantling her stance on the enemies-to-lovers trope, wielded with the precision of someone who'd definitely overthought this. The last line made her snort:
"Admit it. You just hate being wrong."
She wiped her sticky hand on her sweatpants and typed:
"I would, but unlike some people, I value my dignity."
One Week In
The messages had migrated—first from public forum posts, then to private DMs, now to a fourteen-thread-long email chain. Lena had learned three things about CaptainAwkward—real name: Daniel.
He owned exactly one suit ("for funerals and disappointing my mother").
He could quote The Princess Bride in its entirety, accents and all.
His laugh sounded like a startled seal when it really caught him off guard.
That third one she discovered during their first voice message exchange. Lena had been elbows-deep in reorganizing her bookshelf when her phone buzzed with an audio file. She nearly dropped Wuthering Heights on her foot.
Daniel's voice emerged—warmer than she'd imagined, with a rasp that caught her off guard.
"Okay, serious question: would you rather fight one hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck? This is important. For... research."
She played it three times before recording her answer:
"The ducks. Obviously. Horses have creepy teeth."
She deleted four takes—one where her voice cracked, another where her cat Mr. Puddles yowled like a demon—before finally sending it.
His reply came twenty minutes later: a voice note of pure, helpless wheezing.
The First Video Call
Rain whispered against Lena's bedroom window as she stared at the incoming video call on her laptop. Her finger hovered.
It's just a face, she told herself. You've seen faces before.
She clicked Accept.
The screen buffered, then resolved into a guy with messy brown hair, a crooked nose that had clearly met a fist at least once, and the backdrop of what looked like a closet full of books.
"Uh," Daniel said. "This isn't as flattering an angle as I'd hoped."
Lena's mouth betrayed her before her brain could intervene.
"You look exactly like someone who'd argue about duck combat scenarios."
His eyebrows—absurdly expressive—shot up.
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
Four hours later, her cheeks ached from smiling. They'd wandered from literary debates to trading awful childhood photos: Daniel in a Batman cape standing in a kiddie pool, Lena with braces so big she could have tuned in to satellite radio.
When they finally hung up, Lena realized two things:
She'd forgotten to eat dinner.
She'd memorized the way his left dimple appeared when he was trying not to laugh.
3:47 AM
Lena's phone buzzed.
Daniel:Can't sleep. Tell me something true.
The screen's glow illuminated the half-unpacked boxes still haunting her room. She'd lived here six months and still hadn't committed to wall art. Outside, the city murmured its midnight lullaby of sirens and garbage trucks.
She typed:
"I'm afraid of garden gnomes."
Daniel:FINALLY someone who understands. Those beady little eyes see EVERYTHING.
Lena buried her face in her pillow to stifle a laugh.
The Realization
It happened on an unremarkable Tuesday. Lena was walking to the grocery store, dodging a pigeon with a death wish, when her phone buzzed.
Daniel:Just saw someone reading on the subway. They were holding the book upside down. Should I intervene?
She grinned, thumb flying across the screen.
"Obviously you take the book and read it to them. Out loud. In a Shakespearean accent."
His reply was instant.
Daniel:On it. Will report back from the hospital after they stab me.
She stopped walking. A businessman bumped into her shoulder and muttered something rude. Lena didn't hear it.
Because in that moment, it hit her—sharp and sudden as cold air in her lungs.
Oh.
Oh no.
This was bad.
Lena James didn't do feelings. She was the one who left first. The one who kept everything locked away behind dry wit and intellectual sparring.
But here she was—standing outside a Duane Reade, grinning at her phone like a fool.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed the screen to her chest.The sun felt too warm.The city too loud.Her heart?
Far, far too involved.
She was so screwed.