Jack lay on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the last message Sophie had sent him. Ask me again sometime.
He must've read it at least a dozen times by now. He knew what it meant—she wasn't saying no, not really. But she wasn't saying yes either. She was scared, and if Jack was being honest, so was he.
He had never been the kind of guy who waited around. If something didn't work, he moved on. If a conversation started to fade, he let it. If a connection got too complicated, he walked away before he had to watch it fall apart.
But this? This was different. Sophie was different.
Jack rolled onto his back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the rhythmic hum filling the silence of his empty apartment. Normally, silence didn't bother him. He was used to it. Thrived in it, even. But tonight, it felt heavy.
His mind drifted back to their conversation. I've never told anyone this before, she had admitted, but sometimes I feel like I've built my whole life on being careful. Like I'm living safely instead of actually living.
Jack understood that feeling more than he cared to admit. People thought he was fearless because he never stayed in one place, because he jumped headfirst into adventure. But that was the easy part. The real risk was staying. Letting someone in. Letting himself need someone.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to say something, to keep the conversation going, but words felt inadequate. Instead, he did something he hadn't done in a long time. He pulled out his old notebook—the one he hadn't touched in years.
Jack had always loved writing, but he had never let anyone see it. Words on a page felt too raw, too personal. Photography was easier. He could hide behind the lens, capture someone else's story instead of exposing his own.
But with Sophie, it felt safe. Maybe not entirely, but enough. Enough to try.
So he tore out a page, snapped a photo, and sent it to her before he could second-guess himself.
A minute passed. Then another. He considered sending a follow-up message—Never shared my writing before. Don't judge too harshly—but before he could, her response popped up.
Sophie: Jack…
Just his name. Nothing else. He could picture her sitting there, phone in hand, processing whatever she had just read.
Then another message appeared.
Sophie: You wrote this?
Jack: Yeah. A long time ago.
A pause. Then:
Sophie: It's beautiful.
Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Sophie: Why did you stop writing?
His fingers tightened around his phone. That was the question, wasn't it?
Jack: Because writing is too personal. Too vulnerable. Taking pictures is easier. Less risk.
She didn't respond right away. When she did, her words were careful, deliberate.
Sophie: You can tell me, Jack. Whatever it is, I'll listen.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. Sophie had always been good at that—making him want to say more than he usually would. Making him feel like it was okay to be something other than the easygoing guy with no strings attached.
Jack: Maybe someday.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Sophie: Ask me again sometime.
Jack smiled at his screen. It wasn't much, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.