The reader
He came online, waiting for her update.
He missed her.
The heat had been relentless today, the kind that clung to the skin and made the air feel heavy. Inside the small grocery store, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their pale glow casting soft shadows on the polished tiles.
The hum of refrigerators filled the silence between transactions, interrupted only by the occasional beep of a barcode scanner and the murmur of distant conversations.
And there she was...his writer.
Sweat glistened at her temple, dark strands of hair sticking to her forehead. She looked exhausted, but when a customer approached, she forced a warm smile, packaging the items with careful hands.
She was so pretty.
Her eyes, deep and brilliant, flickered with something he couldn't quite name. Fatigue? Frustration? Or something heavier?
She licked her lips absentmindedly, and he swallowed hard, quickly lowering his gaze.
She was thirsty.
That was why, before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed a juice box and placed it in front of her.
His hands had trembled slightly. He didn't say a word. Coward.
What if she thought he was a creep?
And his eyes… Did they scare her?
Before he could decide whether to stay or run, she looked up at him.
A brief pause. And then...a smile. A small one, but enough to make his chest ache.
By the time she opened her mouth to say something, he had already turned away, disappearing into the sea of shelves.
Later, back in his room, he spun in his chair, groaning at himself. His phone dinged. His heart leapt.
Writer.
"Hey, reader." A sad emoji followed.
His stomach twisted. Something was wrong.
"Hey, are you alright?" He texted quickly.
"It's nothing, I just…"
A short reply. But her emoji said everything.
Sadness. Frustration. Defeat.
"What's wrong?" He pressed.
Then her next message hit him like a fist to the ribs.
"Maybe I should quit."
His heart clenched.
"Maybe I'm not as great as I thought. Maybe I really do suck at writing... Maybe I'm just a failure thinking she's some Shakespeare."
His throat tightened.
She wasn't a failure. She was everything.
"You're awesome," he replied without hesitation.
"Even if your work isn't great to anyone else, to me, you're amazing. And I know it's selfish, like I said before, but I don't mind being your only fan."
He barely had time to process the weight of his own words before his phone rang.
An unknown number.
His heart pounded as he answered. "Hello?"
A soft, broken sob came through the speaker.
Her.
His fingers tightened around the phone. His writer was crying.
Her voice trembled. "It hurts…"
He exhaled slowly, willing himself to tay steady. "It's okay," he murmured.
"I'm in so much pain… You don't know how much writing means to me. I'm not good at anything else," she choked out.
God, he wanted to hold her.
"Then cry," he whispered. "Cry to me. I'm listening. I'm here for as long as you need."
Outside his window, soft rain began to fall, its rhythm matching the broken breaths on the other end of the call.
So he listened.
He listened until her sobs quieted, until her breathing evened out, until the weight in her voice wasn't quite so heavy.
Somewhere between the rain and her soft exhales, he realized...he was falling.
And it was terrifying.
But for her? He didn't mind.