A day, A night

The room smelled faintly of burnt incense and stale coffee. A single bulb hummed above, its light unsteady, like it too was tired of waiting. I sat by the window, phone in hand, the screen dimmed but not dark, her last message still open…"Sleep soon?"

It was 2:47 a.m. here. 10:17 p.m. there. The space between those numbers had begun to feel like a third person in our relationship; quiet, patient, and always present.

Most mornings began the same way. A hot Americano, honey stirred in slow circles, two vanilla shots, the only kind of consistency I'd managed to maintain in life. The barista at the café stopped asking for my order months ago; now he just gives me a small nod, like a silent acknowledgement of a ritual we both can't escape.

I always sit at the same table, the corner one by the window. The light there falls just right, soft enough to make my coffee look more poetic than it deserves to be. That corner has become mine, unofficially, of course, though I'm fairly certain the barista will name it after me one of these days. My loyalty deserves at least a plaque. Or maybe they could preserve my chair like an exhibit, the sacred seat of the man who singlehandedly kept their vanilla syrup stock moving.

Sometimes, I imagine the corner waiting for me each morning, like an old friend or an ex who never really moved on. My ass print, I like to believe, has claimed sovereignty over that cushion.

The café is small, a few plants pretending to be green, a playlist that refuses to change, and a bell at the door that rings a little too dramatically for such an ordinary place. I order powdered blueberry pancakes with this coffee every single time. It started because she once said they reminded her of winter. She was more of a chocolate fan, but we settled on neutral ground. Pancakes for her and blueberries for me. Powdered? That was common.

Now it's just a habit, but a good one. There's something quietly comforting about the repetition, the way the syrup slides down the same way every morning, the way I check my phone before the first bite, like she might've texted in the last thirty seconds.

Some people find joy in change. I've found a strange kind of happiness in the familiar. Maybe that's why the distance doesn't hurt as much anymore; it's become part of the routine, too. Like the coffee, the corner, the silence after her last goodnight.

The truth is, I'm okay. Mostly. I laugh when she laughs on screen, I tease her about the bad lighting, and I tell her she still looks sleepy at noon. Sometimes she sends those sleepy voice messages. I can't understand them completely till now, but they are the highlight of my day. A forever smile.

The distance is there, sure, but so am I. Maybe that's enough for now.

By 9:15, I'm at my desk. The office is the kind of place that tries too hard to look modern, exposed brick that was never meant to be exposed, motivational quotes on walls that nobody reads, and plants that are definitely plastic but placed strategically enough to make you question it. My cubicle is in the middle row, fourth from the left. Not by the window, not near the coffee machine. Just... middle. Average. Fitting, really.

The computer takes its time waking up, like it also needs coffee before functioning. I don't blame it. While it loads, I scroll through our chat again. There's a photo she sent last night, her in an oversized hoodie, hair tied up messily, holding a cup of something warm. The timestamp says 9:43 p.m. her time. I was probably getting ready for bed. She was probably getting ready to wind down after work.

"You look cozy," I'd replied.

"Tired," she wrote back. "Long day. You?"

"Same. But less cozy."

"You should get a hoodie like this."

"I should get a lot of things."

She sent a laughing emoji. That was it. That was the whole conversation. And yet, I've read it four times this morning already.

My manager, Rajesh, walks by with a cup of tea that's more milk than tea. He's the kind of person who says "let's circle back" unironically and ends every email with "Best." Just that. Not "Best regards" or "Best wishes." Just "Best." As if he's too busy to finish the thought.

"Morning," he says, not really looking at me.

"Morning," I reply, not really looking at him.

This is the extent of our relationship. We've worked together for three years.

The morning drags in that particular way office mornings do, emails that could've been texts, texts that should've been emails, a meeting scheduled to discuss another meeting. I sit through a presentation on quarterly targets, nodding at appropriate intervals, my pen moving across the notepad in a way that suggests I'm taking notes when really I'm just writing her name in different fonts.

Childish? Maybe. But it keeps me awake.

At 11:30, I step out for a cigarette. I don't smoke regularly, just when I need an excuse to leave my desk without explaining why. The smoking area is behind the building, a small patch of concrete with a metal bench and an ashtray that's always overflowing. There's a guy from accounting there, always there, like he's part of the architecture. We exchange the universal nod of people who share a space but not a conversation.

I light the cigarette, but don't really smoke it. Just hold it, watch it burn, let the minutes pass. My phone buzzes. A notification. Not her. Just a news app telling me something I don't care about. I swipe it away and open our chat instead, rereading the last few days. It's become a habit, this scrolling backwards through time, like I'm looking for something I missed.

There's a message from two days ago: "Do you ever feel like we're living in different worlds?"

I'd replied, "Sometimes. But I like your world."

"You've never even been here."

"I know. But I like it because you're in it."

She sent a heart emoji. I'd stared at it for longer than I'd like to admit.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. I drop it in the ashtray and head back inside.

Lunch is the same as always, rajma chawal from the dhaba across the street. The place has no name, just a hand-painted sign that says "FOOD" in slightly uneven letters. The owner, an older man with kind eyes and hands that move faster than his mouth, knows me by face if not by name. I order, he nods, I wait. The system works.

I eat at a small table near the back, away from the crowd of office workers who come in laughing too loudly, complaining about bosses, making plans for the weekend like weekends are something to look forward to. I used to be like that. Maybe I still am on the inside, just quieter about it now.

Halfway through the meal, my phone rings. Her name lights up the screen. I answer before the second ring.

"Hey," she says, and just like that, the noise of the dhaba fades.

"Hey. Isn't it like... really early there?"

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd call."

Her voice sounds tired, softer than usual. I can picture her, probably still in bed, phone pressed to her ear, eyes half-closed.

"Bad night?" I ask.

"Not bad. Just... long. I don't know. Sometimes my brain won't shut up."

"What's it saying?"

She laughs quietly and short. "Nothing useful."

We talked for twenty minutes. About nothing, really. She tells me about a dream she half-remembers, something about being late to a train that didn't exist. I tell her about the meeting that felt like it lasted three days. She asks if I had coffee this morning. I tell her about the pancakes. She says she misses them, even though she's never had them from that café, only heard me describe them a hundred times.

"You make them sound better than they probably are," she says.

"They are better. Because I'm eating them."

"You're ridiculous."

"You called me."

She laughs again, and I close my eyes just to hold the sound a little longer.

"I should let you eat," she says after a pause.

"I'm done. It's fine."

"No, you're not. I can hear you chewing."

I swallow quickly. "Okay, fine. But I can chew and talk."

"I know. But I should try to sleep anyway."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Neither of us hangs up.

"Hey," she says, quieter now.

"Yeah?"

"I miss you."

It's not the first time she's said it, but it lands the same way every time, soft, heavy, somewhere in the centre of my chest.

"I miss you too," I say, and I mean it in a way I don't know how to explain.

"Sleep soon?" I add, echoing her words from last night.

"Yeah. You too, later."

"Yeah."

She hangs up first. I sit there for a moment, phone still in my hand, the screen fading to black. The dhaba noise comes back slowly, plates clattering, someone laughing, the hiss of something frying. I finish my food, pay, and walk back to the office.

The afternoon is slow. A crawl, really. I answer emails with the enthusiasm of someone doing laundry. At some point, I get pulled into a discussion about a project I barely remember being part of. I contribute just enough not to seem useless, then retreat into my screen.

At 4:00, my desk phone rings. Internal call. I pick up.

"Can you send me the report from last week?" It's someone from another floor. I don't recognise the voice.

"Which report?"

"The one you sent. Last week."

"I sent a lot of things last week."

A pause. "Never mind, I'll find it."

They hang up. I go back to staring at my screen.

The clock on my computer says 4:47. It feels like it's been 4:47 for the last three hours.

I think about texting her, but she's probably asleep by now. I check the time zone difference again just to be sure. Yeah, asleep. Or at least trying to be. I open our chat anyway, scroll up to a photo she sent last month, her smiling at the camera, sunlight in her hair, eyes bright in that way they get when she's genuinely happy. I'd saved it immediately. Set it as my wallpaper for a week before changing it back to something generic, worried someone at work might see and ask questions I didn't feel like answering.

I don't know when it happened, really. The shift from "remember her from school?" to "can't imagine a day without hearing her voice." It wasn't a single moment. More like a series of small ones, accumulated over time, like dust gathering on a windowsill. One day, you look and realise it's been there all along.

We were kids back then. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. She sat three rows ahead, always had her hair in a braid, and always had the right answer when the teacher asked. I never talked to her much. Just looked, sometimes. The way you look at something beautiful without expecting it to look back.

Then life happened. School ended. We went in different directions. Different cities, different lives. I didn't think about her for years. Then one day, a friend request. A message. "Hey, remember me?"

Of course I did.

We started talking. Casually at first. Then daily. Then constantly. And somewhere in all those messages, those calls, those voice notes sent at odd hours, we became this. Whatever this is.

Long distance, sure. But it doesn't feel distant. Not really. Just... stretched. Like we're holding the same thread from opposite ends.

At 6:15, I pack up. The office is still half-full, people pretending to work while actually planning their escape. I don't say goodbye to anyone. Just grab my bag and leave.

The commute home is the usual chaos, too many people, too little space, everyone in a hurry to get somewhere they don't actually want to be. I stand near the door of the metro, headphones in, her favourite song playing. She'd sent me the link weeks ago with a message: "This. On repeat."

I listened to it once and never stopped.

By the time I get home, it's almost 7:30. The room is exactly how I left it, dim, slightly messy, the smell of incense still faint in the air. I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the bed.

My phone buzzes. A text from her.

"Just woke up. Dreamt about pancakes."

I smile. "See? They're famous even in your dreams."

"Or maybe you just talk about them too much."

"Impossible. There's no such thing as too much pancake talk."

"You're ridiculous."

"You texted me."

"Fair."

I can picture her smiling as she types. That small, lopsided smile she does when she's trying not to laugh.

"What are you doing tonight?" she asks.

"Same as always. Nothing. You?"

"Work in an hour. But I have time."

"Call?"

"Yeah. Give me ten."

I get up, make myself some tea, and change into something comfortable. By the time she calls, I'm back in bed, propped up against the wall, the lamp on, the world outside my window dark and quiet.

Her face fills the screen. Hair down, glasses on, that same oversized hoodie from last night.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi."

And just like that, the distance doesn't matter.

We talked for an hour. About everything, about nothing. She tells me about a coworker who keeps stealing her lunch. I tell her about the guy at work who only says "Best." She laughs. I laugh. We exist in this strange little pocket of time that belongs only to us.

"I wish you were here," she says at one point, quietly, almost like she didn't mean to say it out loud.

"Me too."

"One day?"

"One day."

She smiles, soft and sad. "Okay."

"Okay."

Eventually, she has to go. Work calls. Life calls. The time zones pull us back into their separate rhythms.

"Sleep soon?" she asks, and I almost laugh at how this has become our thing.

"Yeah. You work safely."

"I'll try."

"Love you," I say, and it still feels surreal every time.

"Love you too."

The screen goes dark. The room is quiet again. I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day settle in my bones. The distance is still there. The time zones, the miles, the space between us.

But so is this. So are we.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

For now.