Until then, I would be patient. I would be safe. I would be worthy of the trust she'd placed in me.
Ptichka,I typed.How are you feeling today, little bird?
There was no reply. The message sat unanswered in our thread. The grey checkmark told me it had been delivered. The absence of any response told me she was either busy or spiraling.
Probably spiraling.
I knew her patterns by now. Five months of nightly conversations had given me a map of her anxiety, the particular topography of her fears. She overthought everything. Analyzed interactions from seventeen different angles, searching for evidence that she'd said the wrong thing, made the wrong choice, revealed too much of herself.
The "Daddy" slip would have probably sent her into orbit.
I forced myself to step away from the laptop. Made coffee. Checked the security feeds for my building—a habit so ingrained it was practically automatic. The coffee was dark roast, bitter, the way I liked it. I drank half the cup standing at my windows, watching the Hudson catch the first grey light of dawn.
When I finally returned to my desk, a message waited for me.
Ptichka: hi
Just that. One word, lowercase, no punctuation. None of her usual warmth.
My chest tightened.
Lis: There she is. I was starting to worry, little bird.
The typing indicator pulsed. Stopped. Pulsed again. I could practically see her—wherever she was—composing and deleting and composing again. The anxiety must have been choking herby now. Sixteen hours of silence, sixteen hours of imagining the worst.
Ptichka:Sorry. Weird day. I keep thinking about last night and wondering if I made things strange between us.
There it was.
I took a breath. Chose my words with the same care I used for intelligence briefings, though the stakes felt infinitely higher.
Lis: You called me Daddy and I called you my sweet girl. The only thing that's changed is that we stopped pretending.
The pause stretched long enough that I second-guessed myself. Was that too direct? Too much? She needed gentleness sometimes, needed me to approach sideways instead of head-on. But she also needed clarity. The uncertainty was killing her—I could feel it through the screen—and the kindest thing I could do was name what was happening.
Her response came in two separate messages, quick succession:
Ptichka: I liked it.
Ptichka: I like... being yours. Is that okay?
My hands weren't quite steady when I typed back. Not from cold, not from the coffee. From something warmer and more terrifying.
Lis: It's more than okay. It's what I want. I just need you to set the pace.
The typing indicator appeared immediately this time. No hesitation.
Ptichka: You're so patient with me. I don't understand why.
Because you're worth the patience. Because when you trust me enough to call me that name, it feels like the whole world stops spinning. Because I think about you constantly and I don't even know your face and somehow that doesn't matter.
I didn't type any of that.
Lis: Because you deserve someone who waits for you. No pressure. No timeline. Just... when you're ready, I'll be here.
Ptichka: What if I'm never ready?
The question hit harder than it should have.
