Title: Reply Pending
Fiction. Kinda.
It started with a random comment under a music post. Something about lo-fi beats and how the night always feels heavier with headphones on.
She didn’t expect a reply.
But he did.
Not flirty. Not over the top. Just… sincere.
Their conversations were few and far between. He was always late to respond—sometimes a day, sometimes more. But when he did, his words had weight. Thoughtful. Like he was squeezing them in between something else.
She never knew much about him. Just that he was older. That he liked instrumental music. That he always sounded like he was half-here, half-somewhere-far.
She once asked him what he did for work.
He said, “I work in a hospital.”
That was it.
The reply came after three days.
Over time, she filled in the gaps herself.
He was probably busy. Probably important.
Maybe a nurse. Maybe a paramedic.
Maybe someone who saved lives in between her overthinking.
Still, she waited. For the replies. For the rhythm.
For the way he always ended with “take care” and nothing more.
She never admitted it out loud, not even to her closest friends. It wasn’t even that serious—nothing ever happened. Just a few messages. A few late-night “hey, how’s your day?” and her carefully worded replies, afraid to come off too eager. But she always looked forward to that one little notification, even if it came two days too late.
He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t cold either. He just existed in this strange limbo between distance and kindness.
He made her curious.
She told herself it was just a passing thing.
Some people collect playlists. She collected almost-connections.
Somewhere between boredom and longing.
But this one stuck. Maybe because he never overshared. Maybe because he seemed exhausted, like he was carrying something she couldn’t see. Maybe because he wasn’t like the others—the ones who tried too hard, said too much, or disappeared completely.
He didn’t ghost her. He just… lingered.
Like background noise.
She once asked him what kind of hospital work he did.
He left the message on seen.
Replied two days later with something like,
“Mostly shifts. I don’t get much time off.”
That was it. No details.
And she didn’t ask again.
A part of her knew not to push.
Another part whispered, if he wanted to share, he would.
Still, she wondered.
It wasn’t love.
But it also wasn’t nothing.
It was one of those strange in-betweens that lived quietly in your chest.
No beginning, no end.
Just the ache of a story you never got to write.
And then one night, while mindlessly scrolling through social media, she saw it.
A group photo.
Some mutual friend had tagged him in a hospital dinner event.
He was there. In the middle. Wearing a lab coat.
Looking sharper than she imagined.
Standing next to a woman with her hand gently resting on his arm.
The caption read:
“So proud of you, abang. Can’t believe it’s been 3 years since you became a specialist!”
She stopped breathing for a second.
She zoomed in. Her fingers trembling without reason.
The woman beside him wore a soft smile—and a wedding ring.
His ring.
Doctor. Older. Married.
No wonder the silences.
No wonder the vague answers.
No wonder he never said much.
She didn’t cry.
There was nothing to grieve, really.
They were never a thing. He owed her nothing.
And yet, it still stung.
Not because he lied—he technically didn’t.
But because she let herself wonder.
Let herself wait.
Let herself hope for a reply that always came late, but never really came through.
She didn’t block him.
Didn’t send any dramatic final message.
Didn’t even type a goodbye and leave it in drafts.
She just stopped replying.
He never asked why.
Never followed up.
Just… vanished like always.
And maybe that was the answer.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Sometimes she still thought about him when a song reminded her of that first lo-fi thread.
Sometimes she still checked the chat out of habit, even though there was nothing new.
The last message stayed there:
“Hope you’re doing okay. Sorry for the late reply again.”
A simple line. Innocent. Empty.
The kind that’s easy to forget—but somehow, she couldn’t.
Because deep down, that was the sentence she kept telling herself, too.
She was doing okay.
Sorry it took her this long to realise she deserved better.
Maybe he was a good man. A tired one. A busy one.
But also someone who didn’t make room for her.
And maybe that’s all she ever needed to know.
Not everyone who shows up softly is meant to stay.
Some people just pass through your inbox to remind you that silence can speak louder than any confession.
And sometimes, closure doesn’t come in the form of answers.
It comes in the form of no more waiting.
Read.
Seen.
Reply pending.
But this time, it would stay that way.
-end-