CHAPTER 2

Ellie's plan was simple: pretend it never happened.

No more texting strangers. No more swooning over a guy who ordered oat milk like it was a personality trait. Just seven hours of frothing steamed milk, dodging existential questions from customers, and maybe—just maybe—crying into a banana muffin during her ten-minute break.

You know. Mature coping.

She stood behind the counter at Brew & Bloom, eyes glazed over as she absently wiped the espresso machine for the fourth time that morning. Her mind played the scene on loop—the text, the confession, the horrifying realization that she might've just poured her heart out to a complete stranger.

Trixie was right. I'm a walking indie film. No budget. Too many feelings.

Then her phone buzzed. One little vibration. But it might as well have been thunder.

Unknown Number:

Okay, serious question: how often do you confess your love to random people via text? Asking for a friend. Who is me. I'm the friend.

Ellie's stomach did that thing again the weird rollercoaster drop that came with every unexpected message from him.

She blinked at the screen, heart thudding like a snare drum in a punk band.

Her fingers flew before her brain could protest.

Ellie:

Once. This is the once.

A pause. Not long enough for regret to settle in.

Unknown Number:

Then I'm honored. I'll try to live up to your fictional expectations.

Ellie:

You already failed. You don't even like coffee.

Unknown Number:

I do like scones. Does that redeem me?

She smiled.

Oh no.

Don't smile.

He's not real.

Stop smiling, you caffeinated clown.

But she couldn't help it.

Back in his tiny apartment lined with books, late scripts, and mismatched socks, Max leaned back in his chair and grinned at his phone like a man possessed.

Dante the cat gave a slow, judgmental blink from his perch atop a mountain of rejection letters. Max ignored him.

This girl whoever she was texted like a storm. Like glitter in a hurricane. Like chaos had gotten a literary degree and decided to be charming.

He hadn't written a single usable line of dialogue in three days, but their conversations? They felt like the most alive thing in his week. Bantering with her was like scriptwriting in reverse: no edits, no filters, just real moments stitched together with sarcasm and surprising softness.

He still didn't know her name.

He still didn't know her face.

But every message from her was a scene in a movie he hadn't meant to walk into… and now didn't want to leave.

He typed.

Unknown Number:

Tell me something weird. Like, weird weird. Distract me from the crushing weight of editing a script that I already hate.

Later that evening…

At Brew & Bloom, Ellie stood behind the espresso machine like a gladiator awaiting doom. Only instead of armor, she had a red apron and mild social anxiety.

And then—cue the dramatic music—he walked in.

Oat Milk Guy.

Golden-boy jawline. Earbuds. Cinnamon-dusted charm.

Her stomach flipped. She stiffened.

Trixie said he probably didn't get the text. It's fine. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing.

He caught her eye and smiled—that easy, beautiful smile that had triggered this whole mess to begin with.

He stepped forward, pulling one earbud out. "Hey," he said casually, "the usual, please."

Her heart did a backflip. Was it happening? Did he remember the text? Would he say something?

Ellie cleared her throat. "Sure," she squeaked.

She crafted his cappuccino with the precision of a bomb technician, checking the oat milk twice and even dusting the cinnamon in a little heart-shaped swirl.

She slid the cup across the counter. "Here you go—Cappuccino, oat milk, cinnamon dust."

He glanced down at it, then back at her. "Perfect. Thanks, Ellie."

Ellie froze.

He knows my name.

HE KNOWS MY NAME.

Then he smiled again.

And walked out the door.

No big revelation. No cryptic smirk. No follow-up text from across the room.

He didn't get the message.

Because he wasn't the guy.

The realization hit her like an overfilled blender exploding in slow motion.

She slumped against the counter, internally combusting.

Trixie leaned in from the pastry shelf, chewing on a biscotti. "Soooo… we're rooting for the other guy now, right?"

Ellie didn't answer. She just sighed and whispered, "Apparently."

That night, when the café lights dimmed and her feet screamed from too many shifts in non-supportive shoes, her phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

Made it through your day without confessing to any more strangers?

Ellie:

No. I told a bag of coffee beans they understood me better than any man ever could.

Unknown Number:

Smart. Low risk, high caffeine. Solid emotional investment strategy.

She laughed aloud, earning a raised eyebrow from the barista mopping the floor nearby.

Ellie:

So… what do I call you? I feel like calling you "Wrong Number Guy" might jinx the whole texting destiny thing.

A long pause followed.

Ellie watched the typing bubbles appear… disappear… then reappear again.

Unknown Number:

Max.

One word. Simple. Unassuming.

But somehow, it made her heart hiccup.

Ellie:

Nice to meet you, Max. I'm Ellie.

And just like that, the conversation shifted.

The stranger had a name.

And so did she.

Max stared at the screen.

Ellie.

He whispered it to himself like a secret spell.

It suited her. Funny, unpredictable, maybe a little impulsive. He liked names that felt like stories. Hers already did.

He thought about asking where she worked. What her favorite movie was. If she had a cat. If she believed in fate or just had bad luck with autocorrect.

But instead, he typed—

Max:

Ellie. just Ellie, no disclaimers?

Ellie:

Just Ellie. Like a sentence that starts and ends too fast.

But if you really need an origin story, I'll make one up for you tomorrow.

Back in her room, Ellie lay on her bed, phone glowing above her. The ceiling fan hummed softly.

Max.

Not Oat Milk Guy.

Not a fantasy.

Not even a face.

Just Max. And somehow… that felt more real than anything else.