The fight started over something stupid.
Most fights do.
It was a Thursday night—or Friday morning, depending on how you looked at it. 1:47 AM. Lara was sitting on her kitchen floor again, because she had started doing that lately, sitting on the cold tile with her back against the cabinets and her phone in her hand. The kitchen was small and poorly lit and smelled faintly of the curry she had made three days ago.
John was telling her about a friend from college who had just gotten engaged.
"Everyone's getting engaged," he said. "It's like a plague."
"A happy plague."
"Is there such a thing?"
She shrugged even though he couldn't see her. "People like being in love."
"Do they? Or do they like the idea of being in love?"
"That's deep for 2 AM."
"I'm a deep person."
"You're really not."
"Rude."
She smiled, but something about the conversation was making her uncomfortable. She couldn't name it. Just a feeling, small and sharp, like a rock in her shoe.
"Have you ever been in love?" she asked.
The question hung in the air between them.
"I don't know," he said eventually.
"How do you not know?"
"Because I don't know if what I felt was love or just... wanting to not be alone."
She understood that more than she wanted to.
"What about you?" he asked.
"No."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Not even close?"
She thought about it. There had been a guy in high school—tall, quiet, played guitar in a band that was never going to go anywhere. They had held hands at a party once. He had kissed her behind the gymnasium. She had felt nothing. Just the pressure of his lips against hers and the distant awareness that this was supposed to mean something.
"Not even close," she said.
"That's kind of sad."
"Is it?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not."
She changed the subject. She asked about the bakery website, about whether the client had liked the virtual pastries. He said yes, they had loved them, and she felt the conversation shift back into safe territory.
But something had changed.
She could feel it—a small crack in the easy rhythm they had built. Not broken, not yet, but there. Present.
The next night, he was different.
Not in a big way. In small ways. The way he said "hey" when she answered the call—shorter than usual, clipped at the edges. The way he took longer to respond to her questions, like he was thinking about something else.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"I said I'm fine."
The sharpness in his voice caught her off guard. She pulled the phone away from her ear for a second, looked at the screen like it might explain something, then put it back.
"Okay," she said. "Sorry for asking."
Silence.
"I talked to my dad today," he said finally.
"Okay."
"He asked when I'm going to get a real job."
"What's wrong with your job?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. He thinks freelance isn't stable. Thinks I should work for a company. Get benefits. Be normal."
"Do you want that?"
"No. That's the problem."
She waited.
"He doesn't get it," John continued. "He's never gotten it. Every time we talk, it's the same conversation. 'When are you going to grow up?' 'When are you going to be responsible?' Like I'm a child because I don't want to sit in an office for forty years."
"That sounds hard."
"It's not hard. It's just annoying."
"It can be both."
He was quiet for a moment. She could hear him breathing—slower than usual, heavier.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
"You didn't snap."
"I kind of did."
"You kind of did," she agreed. "But it's fine."
"It's not fine. You didn't do anything."
"I know."
She wanted to say something comforting. Something that would make him feel better, that would smooth over the rough edges of his bad day. But she didn't know how. She had never been good at that—at saying the right thing at the right time. Words always came out wrong when she needed them most.
So she just stayed on the line.
"I'm still here," she said.
"I know."
"Okay."
"Okay."
They didn't talk for a while. Just existed in the same space, separated by miles and phone signals and the quiet hum of two people who didn't know how to say what they really meant.
At 2 AM, he asked if she wanted to watch something together.
"How?" she said.
"We both press play at the same time."
"That never works. There's always a delay."
"Then we'll deal with the delay."
She laughed. "You're ridiculous."
"You're still here."
She was. She was always still here.
They found a documentary about octopuses—something random, something neither of them cared about. They pressed play at the same time. There was a delay. She was three seconds ahead of him for the first ten minutes, and then he was two seconds behind, and they spent more time trying to sync up than actually watching.
"This is stupid," she said.
"Very stupid."
"I love it."
"Me too."
They never finished the documentary. By the time they got it synced—or close enough, at least—they had both lost interest. But it didn't matter. The point wasn't the documentary. The point was the trying.
At 4 AM, she asked him if he was still upset about his dad.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Okay."
"Thank you, though. For asking."
"Of course."
He yawned. She yawned too, the way yawns are contagious even through phone calls.
"We should sleep," she said.
"Yeah."
"Don't hang up."
"I won't."
She closed her eyes. The light was flickering. She had stopped noticing it weeks ago, but tonight it seemed brighter somehow, more insistent.
"Lara?"
"Yeah?"
"Nothing. Just wanted to say your name."
She smiled into the dark. "Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight."
She fell asleep with the phone on her pillow, his breathing in her ear, and the small crack between them sealed shut like it had never been there at all.