Ellie's plan was simple: pretend it never happened.
No more texting strangers. No more pining over Oat Milk Guy. Just seven hours of steamed milk, awkward customer service laughs, and maybe crying into a muffin during her break. You know—mature coping.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Okay, serious question: how often do you confess your love to random people via text? Asking for a friend. Who is me. I'm the friend.
Ellie stared. Her heart did that weird rollercoaster thing again.
Ellie:
Once. This is the once.
Unknown Number:
Then I'm honored. I'll try to live up to your fictional expectations.
Ellie:
You already failed. You don't even like coffee.
Unknown Number:
I do like scones. Does that redeem me?
Ellie smiled. Oh no. Don't smile. He's not real. Stop smiling.
Back at his apartment, Max leaned back in his chair, grinning at his phone like an idiot. Dante the cat yawned from atop a pile of rejection letters.
This girl—whoever she was—texted like a storm of pure chaos, glitter, and weird metaphors. He hadn't written a single page in days, but somehow, bantering with her felt like the only creative thing he'd done all week.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know her face.
But every message felt like a scene from a movie he accidentally walked into and now didn't want to leave.
Later that night…
At Brew & Bloom, Ellie stood behind the espresso machine like a gladiator awaiting doom.
And in walked Oat Milk Guy.
She froze.
He smiled at her—that smile—and stepped forward, pulling his earbuds out.
Her heart did a backflip.
"Hey," he said, "the usual, please."
"Sure," Ellie squeaked.
This was it. The moment of truth. Would he smile at her differently? Would he glance at her red apron like in her message?
He didn't.
He was polite. Friendly. And totally, heartbreakingly oblivious.
He didn't get the text.
Because he wasn't the guy.
She handed him the cup. "Here you go—Cappuccino, oat milk, cinnamon dust."
He smiled again. "Perfect. Thanks, Ellie."
He knows my name, her brain screamed.
Then he walked out the door.
She slumped against the counter.
Trixie leaned in and whispered, "So... we're rooting for the other guy now, right?"
That night, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
Made it through your day without confessing to any more strangers?
Ellie:
No. I told a bag of coffee beans they understood me better than any man ever could.
Unknown Number:
Smart. Low risk, high caffeine.
Ellie:
So… what do I call you? I feel like calling you "Wrong Number Guy" might jinx the whole texting destiny thing.
There was a pause.
Then—
Unknown Number:
Max.
Ellie:
Nice to meet you, Max. I'm Ellie.
And just like that, the conversation changed.
The stranger had a name.
And Ellie realized, way too late, that she was in trouble.
Not because Max was real.
But because he was starting to feel like the only real thing in her life.