It was the kind of week that passed without fanfare.
Classes. Rehearsals. Sleep in patches. Coffee in excess. Elena felt herself slipping into routine again, and for once, she didn't mind it. No drama. No rumors. Just a stretch of days that didn't demand anything more than showing up.
But Alexander kept showing up—on her phone.
Not always first. Not every day. But often enough that her fingers would hover over her screen, wondering when the next text might come.
Alexander (Monday, 7:42pm):
> Is your dance studio supposed to sound like a warzone?
Passed by. Something exploded.
Elena:
> Foam roller avalanche.
We barely survived. RIP to two water. bottles and one ego.
Alexander:
> Tragic.
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They never went deep.
Never talked about families, breakups, pasts, or futures.
Instead, it was memes. Class complaints. Sidewalk squirrel encounters. The stupid little details that didn't mean anything—except that they were thinking of each other enough to share them.
Sometimes the messages came late—past midnight. Sometimes they came mid-afternoon between classes, just a photo of a weird cloud or a broken vending machine.
But it built something.
Something light.
Something undeniable.
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Elena caught herself smiling at her screen more than she'd ever admit.
She didn't like him—not like that, not yet.
But she liked knowing he was there. That if she reached out, he'd respond. That she could send a blurry picture of her disastrous attempt at cooking eggs and get a single "Yikes." in return… followed by a video of his own flawless omelet 10 minutes later.
She'd roll her eyes. She'd laugh.
And then she'd think about him again.
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Alexander didn't analyze it.
Not really.
He just… noticed.
He noticed when her replies were a little slower. When her tone changed—subtle things. On Thursday, she only sent two texts the whole day. So on Friday morning, he sent:
Alexander:
> Did the eggs get revenge?
Elena (2 mins later):
> Close. Nearly died slipping in a grocery store aisle.
You ever seen a banana split for real?
Alexander:
> You alright?
Elena:
> Minor bruising. Mostly to my dignity.
He didn't ask for more.
But he replied with a meme of a banana dressed as a soldier.
And she sent back three crying-laugh emojis.
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They weren't flirting. Not really.
But they were watching each other. Carefully. Consistently.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces between texts, both of them felt it:
This wasn't an accident anymore.