Still active.
No messages exchanged since she’d walked out of the café like a dramatic indie film protagonist who’d just learned her meet-cute was secretly the villain.
Her finger hovered over the message box.
Then she typed:
“Still on for Date Two, Mr. F? Or did your algorithm flag me as emotionally unstable?”
She stared at it.
Read it again.
Considered deleting it.
Sent it.
And then she tossed the phone face down on the couch like it had bitten her.
***
Across the city, in a quieter office than usual, Darcy’s phone buzzed.
He looked down. Paused. Blink. Blink again.
He hadn’t expected her to message.
Not yet.
Not so soon.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, as if waiting for the message to dissolve. Then, slowly, a corner of his mouth lifted—barely there. But it was something.
He tapped to reply.
Typed.
Stopped.
Typed again.
Then sent:
“Still on.
Emotionally unstable is well within our predictive tolerance.
Shall we say Thursday?”
***
Elizabeth stared at the screen, then let out a single, mirthless laugh.
“God help me.”
She typed: “Thursday. No café this time. I get to pick the place.”
And hit send.
