Henric and Lana kept talking.
Not in a way that demanded attention. Not the kind of conversations that drained energy. Just little talks messages exchanged between moments of the day. Good mornings that came late. Replies that didn't rush. Questions that didn't pry.
"How's your day going?"
"Did you eat?"
"Work was stressful today."
Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, something about the consistency felt different to Lana. She didn't overthink it. She had learned not to. Life had taught her that expectations were fragile things easy to build, easier to break.
So she stayed grounded.
One evening, while Lana was lying on her bed scrolling through old drafts of content she never posted, a message from Henric came through.
Henric:
I don't think I mentioned this earlier…
I'm actually in the country right now.
Lana read the message twice.
In the country.
She didn't feel a rush of excitement. No butterflies. No dramatic pause. Just mild surprise.
Lana:
Oh, okay.
She sent it just like that simple, neutral, unassuming.
Henric stared at her reply longer than he expected to.
He had imagined curiosity. Maybe questions. Maybe a hint of interest. Instead, she gave him exactly what her words carried nothing extra.
And somehow, that made him want to say more.
Henric:
I'll be going back next week.
Lana nodded to herself, phone resting loosely in her hand.
Lana:
Alright. Safe travels when the time comes.
That was it.
She didn't ask why he came.
She didn't ask where he was staying.
She didn't ask when he was leaving.
She had been here before reading too much into moments that didn't promise anything. She refused to do that again.
For Henric, her calm response was unsettling.
He had expected indifference to push him away. Instead, it pulled something out of him. He realized he didn't want to be just another temporary presence in her life. Not a name that appeared briefly and disappeared without consequence.
So he went quiet.
Not out of games. Not to test her. But because he needed time to think, to understand what he was feeling, to decide if this was something he should even touch.
Hours passed. Then a day.
Lana noticed the silence, but she didn't chase it. She had learned the art of letting people be. If someone wanted to stay, they would. If not, she would be fine.
She always was.
Then, late one night, her phone vibrated.
Henric:
Lana… can I ask you something?
She replied a few minutes later.
Lana:
Sure.
There was a pause. A long one. The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
Henric:
We're both in the same country right now.
We're a few hours apart, but…
Would you like to see each other?
Lana sat up.
Not because of excitement but because the question carried weight.
Seeing someone made things real. It moved conversations out of screens and into presence. And presence had consequences.
She stared at the message, her thoughts loud in the quiet room.
Why does he want to see me?
What does this mean?
Is this just curiosity or something more?
She reminded herself of what she knew.
She barely knew him.
He was older.
He was leaving soon.
And yet… there was something steady about him. Something intentional in the way he asked, not assuming, not pressuring.
She didn't answer immediately.
Henric waited, heart heavier than he wanted to admit. He knew the risk. He knew she could say no. And if she did, he would respect it. But asking felt necessary like a door he had to knock on, even if it stayed closed.
Finally, Lana typed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Lana:
I'll think about it.
Henric exhaled.
It wasn't yes.
But it wasn't no.
And sometimes, hope lived exactly there.
Neither of them knew what that meeting if it happened would change. They didn't know if it would bring clarity or confusion. If it would deepen something or end it before it began.
All they knew was this:
Time was short.
The distance was real.
And the question had already been asked.
Some connections don't announce themselves loudly.
They wait quiet, uncertain, and heavy with possibility.
And as Henric stared at his phone that night, one thought refused to leave his mind:
A week might not be enough… but it might be everything.