There was a time when it was simple.

Just two people exchanging messages, talking about everything and nothing. Spending hours on the phone, wrapped in comfortable silence that stretched gently across the miles between them.

Sae was someone who listened. Someone who replied with intention—even if his replies were dry, quiet, or a little slow. He never felt far. The kind of person who didn’t overwhelm you, didn’t demand anything. It made it so easy to let your guard down, so easy to laugh at his sarcasm, so easy to sit with his silence and not feel awkward with it.

A steady presence in a life where everything else moved too fast.

You didn’t know when it shifted. When his voice started showing up in your thoughts at odd hours, or when your thumb hovered over his name longer than it should be. It was weird—this connection. The mixed signals. The flirty texts. He never pushed—but maybe he also did. Even if he never had the wrong intentions.

Because there was something about the way he remembered what you said—even the smallest things. Something about how he always responded, even if it was late. Even with the time difference. Something about how he worried about you. Something about how he waited.

Something about how he was always there…for you.

And then…he confessed.

He asked, not nervously, not dramatically, just plainly: ”So, what are we?”

And you froze. You didn’t have an answer. Because even though you cared, even though the thought of him disappearing made something twist in your chest, you didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t know what you wanted. So you said the only thing that felt safe. Neutral.

”Friends.”

He took it with the same quiet grace you’d grown used to. Said okay.

And nothing changed. Except…everything did.

Now, late at night, with the quiet whispers of the wind—with the hum of your phone screen lighting your face and Sae’s last message left open.

And all you could ever think about are…the what ifs?

What if you had said yes? What if you had given him a maybe instead of a no? Would he still have sent those sleepy good morning texts even if it was 3AM his time? Would you both have fallen asleep to the sound of each other’s voices over video calls, too tired to say goodbye?

Maybe you would have smiled too brightly during late-night video calls on your end, laughing at something he said with that familiar, sarcastic lilt in his voice. And when the call ended, would you have fallen asleep with a soft smile tugging at your lips—wrapped in the quiet certainty that he was yours, and you were his?

You wonder if you would have grown to love him—not as a friend, but as something far more fragile and real.

And one day—when you finally met, would your hands have found his on instinct with a hint of nervousness, would your lips have pressed against his cheek in the quiet after a long flight? Would you have memorised the shape of him like your favourite song?

Would you have learned to love him in the way he once offered to love you?

You’d still be here, in this same room. Still sending him memes and music. Still checking the time difference before calling. But maybe…you’d do it with your heart in your throat. With your lips still warm from the memory of his.

With love that left no room for uncertainty.

But you didn’t say yes.

You didn’t even say maybe.

And now, even as he stays in your life, unchanged and steady—something haunts you. That a different version of this life exists. A softer one.

One where you didn’t let fear keep you safe—where you didn’t build walls up just to feel in control. One where you let yourself fall, not knowing where you’d land, but trusting the feeling—trusting him.

A version of yourself that reached out despite trembling hands, that said yes even through the uncertainty. One where love wasn’t a risk to avoid, but a possibility you allowed yourself to chase, even if it meant getting lost along the way.

And that version keeps whispering.

If you had said yes…