The lift doors slid open, and Ria finally felt like she could breathe again. The cool air of the hallway hit her face, a brief relief for her racing heart. She walked behind him, watching his slow, deliberate pace. To be honest, there was something about the way he moved—unhurried and calm—that made her feel a strange sense of comfort, even if it was only for a few seconds.
Then, he reached his door and disappeared inside.
Ria hurried into her own apartment and leaned against the door, the silence of her white walls suddenly feeling heavier than usual. I should have said something, she thought, a wave of regret washing over her. She replayed the silence in the lift, wishing she had the courage to break it. But then, the old Ria—the guarded, careful Ria—took over.
She had grown up being quiet, never the one to start a conversation. To be honest, she was terrified of what people might think. If she spoke first, would she seem desperate? Would he think she was too forward? Her mind spiraled into a hundred "what ifs," judging the situation before it even began.
She sat down, trying to push the thoughts away, when suddenly—Tong-Tong.
The doorbell echoed through the quiet house.
Ria froze. Who could it be at this hour? She crept to the door, her heart doing that familiar, frantic dance again. She looked through the peephole, and her breath caught.
It was him.
He was standing there, still carrying that same calm, effortless attitude. Ria's mind raced. Why is he here? Do guys like him really talk to girls like me first? She realized then how much she had been judging him, assuming he was too "cool" or too distant to notice her.
To be honest, the thing is, she didn't know why he was there—maybe he needed a battery, maybe he needed help—but the wall she had built around herself was about to crack.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached for the handle and opened the door.