The screen’s glow paints her face in a cold, sterile light. She lies on her bed, still in the work clothes she hasn’t bothered to shed, the fabric twisted around her limbs. The city beyond the blinds is a silent, glittering beast, but its noise is nothing compared to the clamor in her own head. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard. The message from the unknown number—his number—stares back at her, two simple words that feel heavier than lead. Still awake? Her chest feels tight. She types a single letter, deletes it. Then another. Finally, her fingers move with a stiff, deliberate motion. Can’t sleep. She hits send before she can second-guess the impulse.

A reply comes almost instantly, the vibration making her phone jump on the nightstand. Me neither. The casualness of it is disarming. Working late? She stares at the question, the words blurring slightly. She imagines him in his own apartment, maybe in a similar state, the blue light of a screen carving shadows onto his sharp features. She types back, Something like that. The dots appear, indicating he’s typing. They vanish, then reappear. Why? The message is simple, direct. It feels like a challenge.