Their conversations didn't suddenly become frequent; one day, they simply began to stretch—slowly, outward.
Not deeper.
Just longer.
Sometimes they talked a little more.
Sometimes no messages came all day.
No fixed rhythm.
No one waiting for the other.
She almost always replied at night.
After work ended, after dinner,
when the city quieted down
and there was no one left to perform for.
She lay on her bed, phone resting on her chest,
typing slowly, often deleting and rewriting—not because the words mattered,
but because she didn't want to send the wrong kind of nothing.
Every message carried a silent test:
Would he notice? Would he care?
Would she be misread, misunderstood again?
He replied whenever he saw the message.
Between classes, during breaks,
sometimes standing in the aisle of a convenience store,
food cooling in his hands.
He wasn't in a hurry,
and never apologized for replying late.
She never asked why.
Part of her liked that he didn't explain—it meant he was free, unpredictable,
not bound by her expectations.
Another part resented it—
she wanted certainty, a clue, a sign
that she mattered more than routine.
⸻
They talked about ordinary things.
Nothing too deep.
Where they were from.
How long he'd been in Taiwan.
What she was doing now.
She said she worked remotely,
that her life could be moved anywhere.
What she didn't say was
she'd been living like this for years,
and the walls she had built around herself
had grown taller than she realized.
He said he taught English online.
Students from different countries, different time zones.
What he didn't say was that
on some days, the only people he spoke to
were faces that disappeared as soon as class ended.
The silence that followed
was heavier than any conversation he'd had with her.
They almost never mentioned one thing—
that neither of them had planned
to stay here for long.
This place wasn't the destination.
Just safe, inexpensive, quiet.
A place to dock for a while
without asking too many questions.
Some things are easier
when left unexplained.
⸻
Sometimes they talked about food.
Not restaurants.
Neither of them ate out much.
She ordered delivery too often,
and knew it wasn't good.
He ate microwaved meals almost every day
and didn't think much of it.
He said he rarely went into restaurants,
because he didn't want to talk to people
who didn't speak English
or struggle through ordering.
She laughed. "So did you come here just to experience convenience store culture?"
He chuckled. "And you? What's your favorite thing to eat?"
She thought for a moment. "Hmmm... tacos."
"I like tacos too."
"Then next time," she said, "we'll do Taco Tuesday."
It was said lightly, as if it didn't have to happen to still feel real.
And yet, both of them felt a small thrill—not love, not yet,
just recognition: someone else in the city
who understood the rhythm of ordinary life.
⸻
One night, in the middle of a conversation
that wasn't really about anything,
she suddenly asked:
"Have you been to Costco?"
He paused.
"No."
She stared at the screen a little longer than necessary.
"But you're American."
"I know."
She couldn't help laughing.
"I just assumed you must have."
He said that when he was in the U.S.,
most things were ordered online.
It wasn't that he never went out—
Costco just had never been part of his life.
She didn't say it out loud,
but the thought stayed with her.
Costco isn't romantic.
It's not special.
It's even a little boring.
But to her,
it was familiar, predictable.
A place she knew how to move through, how to order,
how to exist without thinking too much.
Maybe—
if she took him there,
it wouldn't just be meeting a stranger,
but letting someone, briefly,
step into her life
without asking him to stay.
⸻
They didn't decide right away.
The thought surfaced once,
then got buried under other conversations.
They were still talking to other people.
No one stepped away because of it.
She went on a few dates
that left no impression.
He mentioned casually
that he was meeting someone
from another city the next day.
There were no promises between them.
There didn't need to be.
And yet, strangely,
every time the other person sent a message,
they noticed.
They were both aware of the other's small existence,
like a quiet echo in the city,
persistent but non-intrusive.
A balance of curiosity and caution
that neither fully understood.
⸻
A few days later, on her day off,
she brought it up again.
"Do you want to find time to meet
while you're off?"
He didn't reply right away.
When he did,
it was just one word.
"Sure."
She paused, then typed:
"Costco?"
After sending the message,
she stared at the screen for a long time.
Long enough to regret it.
Then he replied.
"I don't have a membership."
She smiled.
"It's okay.
We'll just go to the food court."
This time, he replied quickly.
"Okay."
⸻
At that moment,
it didn't feel like a date.
No anticipation.
No consequences.
Just two people
deciding to be in the same place
at the same time.
They didn't know yet—
that this small, practical decision
would become the beginning
of everything
they might one day struggle to undo.