I need to talk to Ursak.
The apartment lobby feels smaller at seven PM, evening light filtering through windows that turn everything golden and forgiving. I pace between mailboxes and fake plants, rehearsing apologies that sound inadequate no matter how I arrange the words.
I wrote about our coffee meetings.
It went viral.
I didn't mean for it to become public consumption.
I was trying to document something beautiful about neighbor relationships and accidentally turned you into internet content.
None of it sounds like enough.
The elevator dings. Ursak emerges with a messenger bag and what looks like dinner from the Ethiopian place down the street. He sees me hovering near the mailboxes and smiles. Genuine warmth that makes my stomach twist with guilt.
"Maya. Good evening. How was your writing productivity today?"
How was your writing productivity.
The question lands like a punch. Of course he doesn't know. Why would he know? Internet virality happens in spaces he probably doesn't monitor, targeting audiences he likely doesn't engage with.
"Actually, I need to talk to you about that."
Something in my voice shifts his expression from friendly interest to cautious attention. "Is everything alright?"
"I wrote about us. About our coffee meetings and the foam incident and... it went viral. Really viral. Thousands of people have read it and shared it and commented on it, and I didn't think about asking permission first, and I feel awful because your private moments are now public entertainment."
The words tumble out faster than intended, confession and apology blending into word salad that probably makes no sense to someone who wasn't watching notification numbers explode all afternoon.
Ursak sets down his dinner bag carefully, processing my rambling admission with the same methodical attention he brings to linguistic analysis.
"You wrote about our interactions?"
"Yes."
"In your blog?"
"Yes."
"Without discussing it with me first?"
"Yes." My voice gets smaller. "I'm sorry. I was excited about the coffee diplomacy working, and I wanted to share that community building stories with my readers, but I didn't think about how it would feel to have your personal moments become viral content."
"Viral content."
"Thousands of people have read it. Shared it. Commented on it. There's a BuzzFeed editor who wants to feature it in a wholesome content roundup."
Ursak's expression lights up with surprise and confusion despite his careful composure.
"May I read this viral content?"
I hand him my phone with the blog post still open, numbers still climbing in real-time. He scrolls slowly, reading with the same focused intensity he probably brings to academic texts.
His face gives away nothing while he reads, but I watch his shoulders tense slightly when he reaches the foam incident description. His jaw tightens at the Hungarian love letters reference.
When he finishes, he hands back my phone without meeting my eyes.
"You described me as 'seven-foot orc in reading glasses.'"
