The days after his confession were a balancing act. Zuvi didn't block him or cut him off, which Mavi counted as a small victory. But she didn't encourage him either. Her tone stayed guarded, clipped.
Still, every now and then, her walls slipped. She told him about her younger brother who annoyed her endlessly, about the bus conductor who once tried to short-change her, about the office politics she hated. They were just fragments, but to Mavi, they felt like treasure.
He took each piece and built an image of her in his mind: sharp-tongued, stubborn, but secretly soft when she let herself be.
One evening, after a long day at work, he decided to push again.
"You know," he typed, "you could at least admit you like me a little."
Her reply came quick:
"Why should I?"
"Because it's true."
He waited. This time the silence stretched so long he thought she'd finally had enough of him. But then, almost reluctantly:
"Maybe. A little."
Mavi sat up in bed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't fireworks. But it was a beginning.
And for him, that was enough.