My phone buzzed again just as I was settling into my small corner of the cafe. I glanced at the screen and smiled faintly.
"Good afternoon, Morayo. How's your day going?"
I typed back quickly, fingers a little shaky. "Busy, but manageable. You?"
"Busy as well. Meetings, calls… the usual. But I enjoy moments like this, quiet, where I can talk with someone interesting."
I chuckled quietly. "Interesting? That's a bold claim for someone I barely know."
"Fair. Then let me prove it. Tell me something about yourself. What do you love to do outside of school?"
I paused, thinking. "I like reading, writing… thinking. I guess that's it. Very simple life."
"Not simple at all," he replied. "The mind is never simple. It's complex, fascinating. I think the world could use more people who think, really think, like you."
I felt a blush creep up my neck. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of genius. I promise I'm not."
"Genius? No. Observant. Curious. Intelligent. Those aren't the same as genius, but they're rare qualities. And you have them."
I paused, then decided to ask the question that had been lingering since our first encounter. "Can I ask… how old you are?"
There was a brief delay before his reply, almost as if he were considering it. "I'm forty-one."
I blinked, nearly dropping my coffee. "Forty-one? You… you look like you're in your late twenties, maybe thirty at most."
"Flattering," he wrote, almost immediately. "But I understand your concern. Age can matter, especially if it changes the dynamics of a relationship."
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "It… it does matter to me. I mean, I don't want to be naive or… feel like I'm rushing into something. There's a big gap between us."
"I appreciate your honesty, Morayo," he typed back. "I'm not offended. I would never ask you to ignore your feelings. Age is just a number, but comfort and trust… those are far more important. We can take things slowly. Always slowly."
I exhaled, feeling the tension in my chest ease slightly. "I… I think I can handle slow. As long as we're honest with each other."
"Honesty," he replied simply, "always."
After a brief pause, his next message made my heart skip a beat. "Would you allow me the honor of taking you on a proper date? Coffee, dinner… something to celebrate you surviving a day at uni?"
I stared at the screen. "I don't think so… we barely know each other."
"I understand," he typed back, patient and calm. "May I ask what is stopping you?"
I hesitated, then decided honesty was the only way. "Because… I have a boyfriend. Daniel."
There was a pause that felt longer than the screen could show. Then his reply came, measured, respectful: "I see. Thank you for telling me. That matters. I won't push anything beyond what you're comfortable with. I appreciate your honesty."
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the messages. There was something in the calm steadiness of his words that made my chest feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. Lighter, because he hadn't judged or pressured me. He'd acknowledged my feelings. He'd respected me.
He hadn't made a move, hadn't forced me into any decision. And yet… there was an undeniable pull in his words, a quiet intensity I couldn't ignore.
I typed a short reply, careful not to give more than I was ready for. "Thank you for understanding."
And with that, the conversation paused—leaving me with a strange mix of excitement, curiosity, and guilt all at once.