I don't open message requests.
That's the rule I live by—one of the many small ways I keep myself safe.
So when I did that day, it felt insignificant.
Just boredom. Just scrolling. Just curiosity with no intention behind it.
The message was simple. Almost careless.
"Mutuals."
I didn't even know who he was.
Didn't know he was a boy.
Didn't know he would matter.
I replied jokingly, because humor is my first language.
He joked back, like he'd been waiting for permission to be himself.
Somewhere in between, he asked to know me—and I turned it into an interview, because pretending things are unserious makes them easier to survive.
We moved to WhatsApp like it was nothing.
Like that wasn't already a choice.
The interview continued there—questions, laughter, little moments that didn't ask for attention but took it anyway.
And slowly, he started filling the silence of my days without asking for space to do so.
That's when I noticed him.
Noticed the way he sent pictures of himself, casually, like he wasn't trying to impress me but still somehow was.
Noticed the long voice notes—three minutes of his day, his thoughts, his tone wrapping around me in a way text never could.
Noticed how he complimented me without making it heavy, without demanding anything back.
I hadn't signed up for closeness.
But it arrived anyway.
One day, he sent a video.
Nothing dramatic. Just him being himself.
At the end, he did a little dance—small, playful, unguarded.
I told him I liked it.
That was all.
And then he said it.
"I love you."
Just like that.
No buildup. No warning.
Like love was something you could place gently in someone's hands and trust they wouldn't drop.
My heart didn't flutter.
It dropped.
Suddenly, I was aware of everything I stood to lose.
Every story I've seen where things move too fast and burn out just as quickly.
Every ending that arrives right after the beginning gets too bright.
The white rabbit appeared then—the one that whispers patterns into your ear.
All roads lead to Rome.
Rushed things always die.
Don't say it back unless you're ready for the leaving.
So I didn't.
I told him goodnight instead, because that was all my courage could carry.
And he said, "Take your time."
No anger.
No pressure.
Just patience.
And somehow, that scared me more than if he had rushed me.
Because patience means staying.
And staying means risk.
That night, I lay awake wondering how something that started with a careless "mutuals"
had already found its way into my chest.