The next few days after that, simple text was a blur. Messages from Lia had become a constant part of my daily routine. They weren't long or overly emotional—no, they were casual and playful, the kind of messages that were just enough to keep me tethered to something I wasn't sure I fully understood. But the more we texted, the more comfortable I became, and the more I found myself looking forward to our exchanges.
I won't lie; at first, I thought it would all fizzle out. I didn't expect her to respond as often as she did, let alone with the same enthusiasm. But she did. It wasn't that we were talking constantly, but when we did, it was effortless. Each message from her felt like a little gift, a slice of her life that I hadn't expected to be a part of. It wasn't even anything major. She'd tell me about the new book she was reading or how she was practicing the piano. I'd share my latest thoughts on a research project I was working on or laugh about some ridiculous thing that happened during class. The mundane became meaningful because we were sharing it with each other. And somehow, that made it feel more important than it should have been.
Lia started helping me with things that I wasn't so great at. Math problems that looked like riddles on paper? She'd break them down, explaining them to me in the most patient way. Tests I thought I had no chance at? She'd help me study, offering explanations that actually made sense. She'd send me links to articles, tips on research, and even mock test questions. It was like a secret exchange of knowledge that had no expiration date.
In return, I'd help her with her essays. Titles, structure, arguments—anything she needed. I'd spend hours fine-tuning her drafts, turning them from rough ideas to something polished and presentable. We had our routine down. She'd send me the rough drafts, I'd return them with notes, and she'd fix them up. And somehow, it always worked out.
There were moments when we'd share something deeper, something that made me realize how much we really clicked. We'd talk about people we didn't like—dissecting petty behaviors, annoying habits, and all the little things that bugged us. It was one of those conversations where you could say anything with no filter and no judgments. And in those moments, it felt like we were two pieces of a puzzle that just fit. We laughed at how we didn't have time for fake people or anything that didn't feel genuine.
But it wasn't just the small stuff. We talked about bigger things, too. One night, as we were talking about religion, I remember feeling a strange sense of understanding. Both of us had grown up with different views on faith, but we shared the same stance: we didn't believe in it. We were both atheists, which was a rare thing to find in a world that often felt so consumed by it.
It was comforting, in a way, knowing that we didn't have to explain ourselves or justify our beliefs. It was just another layer of understanding between us, another reason why things felt so easy with her.
But the more we talked, the more I found myself thinking about her. Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that I expected. But I found myself missing her on days we didn't talk, looking forward to those random texts or late-night study sessions. I started to realize that she wasn't just someone I texted when I had a problem to solve. She had become someone I just wanted to talk to, someone I wanted to know better.
I didn't know what this meant yet. I wasn't even sure if she felt the same way, but there was this quiet, unspoken understanding between us that neither of us wanted to ruin. We stayed in that gray area for a while, dancing around the idea of what we were without ever fully acknowledging it.
The problem, of course, was that I already knew she wasn't interested in girls. After all, she'd checked "no" on that paper plane. But there was a certain kind of comfort in the way we spoke—something that made me think maybe this wasn't just friendly banter. But still, I didn't want to make things awkward by overthinking it. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
I remember one night, three weeks into texting her, I had been going back and forth with her for over an hour. We were talking about something completely random—whether pineapple belonged on pizza (I was on the pineapple side, of course). The conversation had somehow shifted to our favorite childhood memories, and she told me about a time when her family went on a road trip, and she'd puked in the backseat while her brother was making fun of her. She was so easy to talk to, and her laugh was infectious, even through text.
But then the conversation stalled for a bit. A heavy silence took over, and the usual flurry of quick replies slowed. I wasn't sure why, but I felt the weight of the moment. She had shared something real, something vulnerable. Something I didn't quite know how to respond to.
After a few minutes, she sent another text. "You know, sometimes I think about how weird it is, talking to someone so easily, like we've known each other for years. But we've never really met properly, just at that camp."
That stung a little. We hadn't met properly, had we? Sure, we had a picture together, and we'd exchanged a few messages. But it wasn't the same. It was like we were both dancing around something bigger than ourselves. She wasn't the girl from that research camp anymore. She was becoming someone I wanted to know, and that thought made my stomach flip.
"I know. It feels like we're getting to know each other backward, doesn't it?" I typed, my fingers hesitant over the keys. "We've talked for weeks, but there's still so much we don't know about each other."
I watched the little bubble pop up as she started typing, and my breath caught in my throat. I wasn't sure why I felt so nervous—it was just a conversation. Yet, it felt like there was something more between us, something hanging between the lines of our text messages.
"Yeah, I guess so. But I'm not sure if I'm ready to know everything yet. Does that make sense?" she replied, her words measured, careful.
It made sense. It made perfect sense. She wasn't ready. And that was okay.
But even though I told myself, I was fine with the pace we were going at, something deep down nagged at me. It wasn't the fact that we weren't meeting up or that she was taking her time. It was the fact that I didn't know what she wanted from this connection. Was it just a friendship to her? Was I just another person in the long list of people she talked to casually to try things out?
For me, it had begun to feel like something more, something I couldn't quite explain. It was like the more we communicated, the more I realized how deeply I wanted to know her. I wanted to see the small, subtle moments—the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way she looked at the world with a mixture of curiosity and caution. I wanted to understand everything about her, even if I couldn't label it.
Three months in, it wasn't just the quiet text exchanges that held my attention. I was starting to look forward to the little moments that happened between us. Like when she would text me first in the morning, and it felt like a secret shared between just the two of us. Or when we had long conversations late into the night, when the world fell asleep, and it was just us, talking about anything and everything.
But as much as I wanted to get closer, a part of me wondered if it was even worth it. She had told me she wasn't gay. That was clear from the paper plane. She wasn't interested in me like that. We were just friends. And still, I kept going. I kept hoping that maybe, just maybe, things could change.
One evening, after another one of our late-night conversations, I stared at my phone. The message bubble sat there, mocking me, blinking at me in a way that felt too heavy. It was the same question that had been plaguing me for weeks now. What are we?
I didn't want to keep waiting in the gray area, not knowing what I meant to her. Not knowing what this was. I took a deep breath and tapped out the message, my heart pounding as I pressed send.
"Hey, can we talk about where we're at?"
I immediately regretted it. My fingers hovered over my phone as I waited for her reply. What was I expecting? I didn't know. I couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer.
A few moments later, the bubbles appeared again, and my heart skipped a beat. I couldn't bring myself to read the message right away.
When I finally did, my stomach dropped. "I don't know yet. I don't want to rush things."
It wasn't a no. It wasn't a yes. It was the same as it always had been—uncertainty. Hesitation.
But this time, it stung differently. Because I had expected something more. I had expected an answer, even if it was one I didn't want to hear.
I sat there, staring at the screen, reading the words over and over. My mind screamed for something more definitive, something solid. But I couldn't get that from her, not yet.
I texted her back anyway. "I get it. I'm just… I need to know what this is. I am not forcing you to say something you don't want just to cater to my feelings."
It felt like everything had stopped at that moment. But then, a reply came—one that caught me off guard.
"You're someone I care about, Chantel. But I don't know if I can be more than that, but I have not yet. I don't want to rush things, not when I'm still figuring everything out."
Her honesty hit me like a ton of bricks. She cared about me. That much was clear. But she wasn't ready. She wasn't sure if we could be anything more. And that's when I realized that it wasn't just about me trying to figure her out. It was about both of us.
We were still learning who we were to each other.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't straightforward.
But maybe that was okay.