At last, Ánh Nga finished the report that had been tormenting her all week.

The word "Completed" flashed at the corner of her screen, and she let out a soft, relieved breath. Leaning back in her chair, she stretched her arms overhead. It felt as if her whole body had finally been freed from a tangled mess.

It was a late Sunday afternoon. Gentle sunlight slipped through the glass window, warm and golden. Everything around her suddenly felt unusually pleasant.

She turned on some soft music.

An acoustic melody wove itself into the quiet room, softening the air. She picked up her now-cold coffee, took a small sip, and smiled. "I'm in a surprisingly good mood today."

Good enough that she wanted to talk to someone—just to chat about nothing important. No work, no deadlines, no reports.

She opened her contacts.

First name: Project A Team Lead. Second name: North Branch Accountant. Third: Priority Client.

She scrolled past the uniform rows of names, her interest fading with each line. Every contact was tied to meetings, meetings, and more meetings.

Not a single person she could message without proofreading for "professional tone."

She leaned back and sighed.

"This is adulthood. If it's work, there's always someone to talk to. If it's just for fun, suddenly no one's free."

And then—almost like a reflex—her eyes stopped on a familiar name.

Phú Thiên.

It sat there among the dull gray contacts like a small bright dot, making her raise her brows slightly.

How long had it been since she last messaged him?

Probably... almost six months.

Every time she scrolled past his name, she would think "maybe later", and then never did.

Still, she'd never deleted it—as if she wanted to keep a small shortcut to an old corner of memory.

They used to be close in university.

A strangely balanced kind of close: she talked a lot, he was quiet; she was messy, he was rational; she teased, he clapped back at just the right moments.

Whenever their group got stuck, he solved it. And she—well—usually caused the confusion.

Yet somehow, they never stayed mad at each other for long.

One message, one joke, and everything reset.

She stared at his name and lightly tapped her screen.

A thought crossed her mind—Maybe... just try.

If he was free, they could chat. If not, well... it'd just vanish into the void.

She typed quickly.

"Hey, you still alive?"

Short and breezy. A kind of opener one could only send to someone who used to know them well.

She hit send, then rested her chin on her palm, staring at the screen like a kid tossing a coin into a wishing well and waiting for a miracle to jump back out.

Three minutes passed.

No reply.

She shrugged, smiling to herself. "Fair. He's a construction guy. Probably buried under blueprints."

She set her phone aside and returned to cleaning up paperwork. But just moments later, the device buzzed lightly on the table.

The screen lit up. A message.

Phú Thiên:

"Alive. Still here.

Tired, but not enough to die yet. 😅"

Nga burst out laughing. It was exactly his style—short, dry, but with just enough space for humor to slip through.

She texted back immediately:

"Classic engineer energy—pessimistic but oddly calm. 😂"

A moment later:

Phú Thiên:

"And you?

Have you rested yet, or still planning to take over the whole company?"

Nga leaned back, the corner of her lips lifting.

"Not taking over anything. But work does seem to be taking over me."

Phú Thiên:

"Knew it. People don't change that easily."

Ánh Nga:

"Like you're any different. Back then you studied till midnight, now you probably work straight through the night."

Phú Thiên:

"As long as I'm alive, I'm working.

So, what's this? Messaging me because you missed me, Miss Department Head?"

His last line made her pause for a moment.

Strange how a simple sentence could soften something inside her.

A light breeze slipped through the half-open window.

She glanced outside—the city below glowed with long rows of warm streetlights. Cars drifted along like beads on a string.

Suddenly, she felt small—but not lonely.

Maybe because there was still someone who talked to her in the way she was used to: a little cold, a little warm, a little funny, and strangely genuine.

She typed:

"Well... it's been a while, so I had to check if you were still alive."

Phú Thiên:

"Hahha... Years pass and you still check on me in the weirdest ways."

Then another:

Phú Thiên:

"Okay, we can chat. But if you're about to rant about office drama, give me ten minutes to mentally prepare. I lag a bit."

Nga laughed and bit her lip to keep from laughing too loudly.

His tone felt so familiar it was as if the past few years had only been a long nap.

"Relax. No drama. Just... felt unusually happy today and wanted to talk to someone I don't have to filter myself with."

Maybe that was more honest than she intended.

He went quiet for a few minutes. Then:

Phú Thiên:

"Sounds like a compliment. Usually you only text me when you're annoyed."

Ánh Nga:

"Yeah... probably. Today's the exception. 😌"

Phú Thiên:

"Lucky me then."

Nga rested her chin on her hand, eyes lingering on the glowing screen.

Their conversation was short, simple, nothing dramatic.

But somehow, it made her feel at peace.

No pretending. No word-polishing. No "always-composed Manager Nga."

Just herself—and someone who used to understand her without needing explanations.

She leaned back and slowly closed her eyes.

The keyboard clicks, the soft music, the glow of her phone—they all blended into something gentle and real.

Some relationships don't need labels or definitions.

Sometimes all they need is a small sign—a message, a smile, or simply someone who's still there to reply.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Phú Thiên:

"Anyway, sleep early. Stop rewarding yourself with more deadlines."

Ánh Nga:

"I'm fine. And you should stop staying up so late. Go sleep."

Phú Thiên:

"Not yet. I'm waiting for your 'Good night' text. I already set aside five whole minutes for it."

She snorted. "Idiot."

Then typed her goodnight message.

The chat ended there.

No more texts, no typing bubbles. The light on her screen slowly dimmed.

But when she set her phone down, a small smile still lingered on her lips.

Tomorrow would be another long day of plans and numbers.

But tonight—just from seeing his messages—her mood had lifted. And she suddenly didn't feel quite so alone.

After all, she still had someone she could talk to. 🌙