CHAPTER TWO: A CONVERSATION THAT STAYED

He texted me the next morning.

“Hey, it’s Daniel. From the funeral. I know that’s random but I couldn’t stop thinking about how you were with Melissa and Manuel. Wanted to see how you’re doing.”

I stared at the message for probably five minutes before I answered. Not because I was playing it cool or anything like that. Just because I didn’t know what to say. He was Clara’s brother. He was kind. And something about the way he’d looked at me made me nervous in a way I couldn’t explain.

I texted back: “Hey! That’s sweet of you to check in. I’m doing okay. You?”

And that was it. That was how it started.

The first few days were normal conversation stuff. How are you, what do you do, where are you from. Basic getting-to-know-you questions that didn’t mean anything yet. But then he asked me what movies I liked, and something shifted.

I sent him a list. “The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Inception, Interstellar, The Shawshank Redemption…”

His response came back almost immediately: “Wait. THE NOTEBOOK? And Inception? And Interstellar? Okay we’re about to become best friends because those are literally my top movies.”

And just like that, we had something to talk about.

For the next two weeks, we texted about movies constantly. Not just surface-level stuff either. We’d analyze scenes, debate endings, talk about why certain movies made us feel things. He’d send me clips from his favorite moments. I’d send him recommendations. It felt easy. Natural. Like we’d been doing this forever.

When the church thanksgiving came around two weeks later, I wasn’t expecting to see him. But there he was, helping set up tables in the fellowship hall, and when he saw me, his whole face changed.

“Hey,” he said, and he sounded genuinely happy to see me. Not polite-happy. Actually-happy.

“Hey yourself,” I said, and I could feel my cheeks getting warm.

We ended up sitting next to each other during the meal. We didn’t really talk much, mostly just existed in the same space, which somehow felt more intimate than conversation. After we ate, he asked me to take a walk with him outside.

It was cold. Thanksgiving cold. The kind where you can see your breath and the sky is all gray and heavy.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said as we walked. “From the funeral. You were so good with the kids, but it was more than that. You were… present. Like you actually cared about them being okay.”

“They’re good kids,” I said.

“Yeah, but that’s not what I mean.” He stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Why do you think you do that? Care like that?”

I didn’t answer right away. Nobody really asked me questions like that. Questions that actually wanted to know something about me.

“I guess…” I started, then stopped. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“You’re scared,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Scared of what?” But I already knew.

“Of people leaving. Of losing them.”

My stomach dropped. How did he know that?

“That’s not…” I started, but he was looking at me in that way again. The way that made it impossible to lie.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I can tell. You hold onto people because you’re afraid they’ll disappear.”

I felt tears prickling my eyes, which was stupid because we barely knew each other. But somehow he saw through everything. All the way to the part of me that was terrified.

“My fear isn’t just about losing people,” I said quietly. “It’s about… falling in love with someone who isn’t real. Who just pretends to care and then leaves. But there’s something worse than that. I’m scared of loving someone I think is going to be mine forever. Someone who becomes part of my everyday. The shared moments, the laughter, the love, the everyday updates, all of it. And then one day, it’s just gone. They’re gone. And I’m left with nothing but memories of someone who was supposed to stay.”

My voice broke a little on that last part.

“I’m terrified of building a life with someone in my mind, you know? Of imagining our future together. And then having all of that ripped away. Of losing not just the person, but the entire future I thought we were going to have together.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said something that I didn’t expect.

“I’m the same,” he said. “I’ve only been in one real relationship. And if this one falls apart, I’m done with love. I can’t do that again. The pain of losing someone you thought was forever, I can’t survive that twice. So whatever this is between us, if we’re going to do it, I need it to be real. I need to know that you’re not going to disappear. That this isn’t just temporary.”

After that, everything changed.

I left for school a week later. It was supposed to be temporary, just a few weeks. But then it turned into the whole semester. And instead of fading like people do when distance happens, Daniel and I did the opposite.

We texted all day. Not just “how are you” texts. Actual conversations. Snap streaks that went on for months. W******p messages about every little thing. I’d send him a picture of my lunch. He’d send me a song that reminded him of me. We’d video call while doing homework. While eating. While just sitting in silence together because even not talking felt better than not being in contact.

My roommate thought I was insane. “You literally just met him,” she’d say, watching me smile at my phone at 2 AM.

But she didn’t understand. We weren’t just texting. We were building something. Every day, every conversation, every stupid snap of him making a dumb face at the camera, it was all building something real. Something that felt permanent.

Three months in, I was sitting in my dorm room late at night, video calling him. We were both tired. Both should have been sleeping. But neither of us wanted to hang up.

He was quiet for a while, just looking at me through the screen. Like he was trying to figure out how to say something that mattered.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he said finally. “And I know that sounds crazy because we talk all day every day, and you’re the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I text before I sleep. You’re in every single moment of my day. But I don’t have a name for it yet.”

My heart was pounding.

“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what he meant.

“I mean…” He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’re not just my friend. You can’t be. Because I don’t think about my friends the way I think about you. I don’t feel this terrified and hopeful at the same time about my friends. I don’t imagine futures with them. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night worried that I’m going to mess this up with them.”

He leaned closer to his phone, like he needed me to really hear him.

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “Like, genuinely. We talk about everything. We laugh at stupid things. You get me in a way nobody else ever has. But you’re also…” He paused, searching for words. “You’re also the person I’m falling in love with. And I’m terrified because you said it yourself, you’re scared of losing people. And I’m scared too. But I’m more scared of not trying.”

I couldn’t breathe. I was just sitting there, my chest tight, trying to figure out how to respond to something so honest, so raw, so exactly what I needed to hear but was terrified to accept.

“Daniel…” I started, but I didn’t know what came next.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he said quickly. “I just needed you to know. I needed you to understand that this, whatever this is, it’s not casual for me. It’s not a phase. You’re not a phase.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “I’m so scared of all of this. Of believing you. Of letting myself feel this much.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

We stayed on the call for hours after that. Neither of us said anything for a while. We just existed together in that space, and somehow that was enough. It was everything.