Quiet Hours

The cursor blinks at me like it's daring me to keep going.

Line 17, paragraph 4. The main character confesses too soon. Or maybe not soon enough. I can't tell anymore. My coffee's cold, and the mug left a damp ring on my notebook that I never actually write in.

I sit cross-legged in my desk chair, a loose hoodie swallowing most of me, tablet balanced against the edge of the desk. Outside, the city murmurs—the sound of faraway traffic and someone arguing with a vending machine downstairs.

He wouldn't say it like that, I think, deleting a sentence.

Type. Pause. Delete.

I'm stuck in one of those loops where everything feels both rushed and flat. The dialogue has rhythm, sure. But no heart.

I lean back and stretch, staring at the crack near the ceiling. This room isn't glamorous. Peeling wallpaper, scuffed tiles, and a desk barely held together by tape. But it's mine. And this is where Nymphaea lives.

Sometimes I forget I created her.

And sometimes, she feels more real than I do.

I glance back at the screen. Chapter 112: In the quiet, he finally speaks.

This chapter was supposed to come out yesterday.

I open a new note and jot something down.

Maybe the confession isn't about love. Maybe it's about being seen.

The words sit on the screen like a secret I'm not ready to say out loud.

Funny how one random conversation can dig its way into your creative process.

His voice comes back to me.

"You ever read Under the Moonlight, I Write?"

He said it with that little pause. The kind people use when something really matters to them, and they don't want to sound lame for admitting it.

I wonder if he knew how that felt from this side.

He sees the quiet things, I think. He noticed the silences.

A memory tugs at me—my first time uploading that story. I was wearing fuzzy socks and had two rejection emails sitting unread in my inbox. I didn't think anyone would read it. Maybe ten people, max. I just needed to say something. For me.

Now, over a hundred chapters later, thousands of readers wait for updates I can barely keep up with. My inbox is a storm of praise and pressure. But last night?

Last night, someone liked it. Not as a product. But as a story.

That's the kind of thing that makes you want to write again.

I save the note, push my hair into a lazy bun, and return to the draft.

I still have time before the last bus

***

[Back to MC's POV]

"One oat milk latte, extra foam!"

I slide the cup across the counter and glance at the line. Two customers left. It's the mid-evening slump, that quiet hour where regulars stop in to delay going home, and baristas pretend to clean while actually spacing out.

Jazz hums through the speakers—something old and slow. Mira hums with it while rearranging the biscotti like it's an art form.

I rinse out a milk pitcher, then duck under the espresso machine, using it like a wall. That's when I pull out my notebook.

It's not fancy. Just a beat-up spiral with frayed edges and pen doodles all over the cover. But inside—inside is where the story lives.

"She reads like she's part of the world inside the book. Like she doesn't just observe it—she's in it."

Too cheesy? Maybe. But I scribble it down anyway.

That girl on the bus… she wasn't just reading. She was living in that story.

And the way she talked about Nymphaea's book? It wasn't fan-level excitement or casual interest. It was like she carried the story with her.

That hit me hard.

I don't meet a lot of people like that. Most folks I know smile politely when I mention writing. They think it's a phase or some hobby I'll outgrow when the "real world" shows up with bills and gray hair.

But her? She got it.

"Still writing?" Mira leans over the counter, peering at my notebook. "Lemme guess. Boy meets mysterious girl on a bus?"

I smirk. "Something like that."

"Sounds like you're in deep," she teases. "She cute?"

I pretend to wipe down the espresso bar. "She likes the same author I do."

"Oof. That's worse."

I laugh under my breath. "You think that's romantic?"

"I think that's writer-brain romantic. You guys fall in love with vibes."

She's not wrong.

I write down one more line before a new customer walks in.

"Sometimes the quietest people are the loudest stories."

***

The bus hisses to a stop at the corner of 4th and Mercer.

She steps on with her usual quiet grace, headphones around her neck, bag hugged close to her side.

He boards three stops later, hair still slightly damp from cleaning up at the café, notebook tucked inside his jacket like something sacred.

They sit in their usual seats.

Not side by side.

Not even looking directly at each other at first.

But they're aware. Both of them.

He glances at the window, catching his own reflection—messy hair, blue eyes, a flicker of exhaustion softened by something else. Maybe anticipation.

She catches his reflection too, in the black glass of her screen. And in that faint distortion, he looks thoughtful. Kind. Human.

Not the sort of man you'd expect to love a slow-burn novel about grief and gentle love. But then again, who expects anything from strangers on the last bus?

A chapter updates on her screen.

Not hers—someone else's.

She scrolls idly but her eyes don't move.

He's pulled out his notebook again.

Somewhere between two streetlights, they glance at each other.

Just a second. A soft pause. No words yet.

But the silence says enough.