CHAPTER 3

The next morning, Ellie stood on her tiny apartment balcony with a chipped mug of lukewarm tea, watching people who looked like they had their lives together. The city hummed with its usual energy—early risers rushing toward subways, dog walkers with perfect hair, and couples laughing like they didn't know heartbreak. One woman strutted past in a pristine power suit, AirPods in, gesturing animatedly like she was closing a multi-million-dollar deal and ordering oat milk at the same time. She had that terrifying, unbothered energy of someone who didn't cry while cooking noodles last night.

Ellie took a slow sip. It tasted like over-steeped disappointment and lukewarm regret.

"Must be nice," she muttered to no one, pressing her cheek against the cool metal railing.

Her eyes drifted to her phone. She picked it up and stared at the last message.

Max.

He had a name now. A name that lived in her notifications like a bookmarked chapter. A name that somehow made everything feel more real—and significantly more dangerous. Because now, he wasn't just a mistake. He was a person. A voice. A story. Even if she didn't know any of those things yet.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed. 9:02 AM on the dot.

Max: If you had to be a breakfast food for the rest of your life, what would you be?

Ellie blinked.

She hadn't even brushed her hair yet and this man was already out here asking deep philosophical questions masked as brunch metaphors.

Ellie: Is this a riddle or a weird kidnapping tactic.

Max: Pure science. Important personality data. Very serious research.

Ellie: Then definitely a croissant. Looks soft and sweet but actually full of air and existential dread.

There was a beat.

Max: That… was oddly poetic. Are you okay.

Ellie: No but I'm baked golden and look good in display windows, so.

Max: Touché. I think I'm a burnt pancake. Looks tragic, still somehow edible. Lots of syrup required.

Ellie: So basically emotionally dependent on maple?

Max: Exactly. I'm a breakfast food with attachment issues.

Ellie snorted. Her tea almost splashed over the side of the mug. She hadn't laughed like that in days.

Max leaned back in his chair, the morning sun cutting sharp lines across his cluttered apartment. Dante, his cat, lay sprawled across the printer, one leg twitching in a dream. His laptop sat open, a blank script glowing like a judgmental ghost. The blinking cursor taunted him. He hadn't written a scene in two weeks.

His agent had called yesterday. Left a voicemail filled with faux concern and veiled threats cloaked in words like "deadline" and "opportunity."

But Max hadn't been able to write. Not since his last script was butchered in rewrites. Not since he started doubting whether he had anything left worth saying.

Until Ellie.

She texted like she was made of glitter and self-deprecating humor and bruised honesty. Bantering with her felt like writing, only better. It was effortless. Unfiltered. Somehow, it made him feel like a person again—not just a writer who'd run out of stories.

That night, Ellie curled up on her lumpy couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, half a bowl of cereal going soggy on the coffee table. Her phone balanced on her stomach, screen glowing like a tiny lighthouse.

She scrolled up through their conversation, rereading bits and pieces.

Max: If your exes were flavors of ice cream, what would they be?

Ellie: Vanilla, but like, the disappointing store brand kind. And pistachio, which I regret even trying.

Max: Mine would be rocky road with a side of poor communication.

She smiled again.

It was stupid. It felt like texting with someone who saw her not the barista version, not the version who always laughed at customers' terrible jokes, but the version who spilled cereal on her hoodie and watched old rom-coms with subtitles on.

Her fingers hovered.

Ellie: Can I ask you something weird?

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then returned.

Max: You sent a love confession to the wrong number. We passed weird on Day One.

She smiled. 

Ellie: What if we're only honest with strangers because we know they'll eventually disappear?

She bit her lip after sending it. That sounded heavier than she intended. Ugh. Maybe she should've added a "lol" or a GIF. But it was already sent.

The typing bubble appeared again. Then stopped. Then returned.

Max: Or maybe we're only honest with strangers… because we hope they won't.

Ellie stared.

The world fell quiet. Even the fridge hum faded into the background. Her heart didn't beat faster—it beat deeper, like a piano note echoing through her chest.

Max didn't send anything else.

He didn't have to.

For the first time in a long time, Ellie felt seen.

Not as the awkward girl behind the counter. Not as the second choice. Not as the punchline of a bad day or the footnote in someone else's love story.

Just... Ellie.

Somewhere across the city, Max reread the message he'd sent. He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous.

Why had he written that?

Max reread the message he'd just sent and smiled—small, private, a little scared.