Almost, Always

Will contain His POV only

Author note:

This is how I imagined his thoughts to be... inspired by other characters and people around.

(His POV)

I didn't download the app expecting anything. I was just bored.

It was the kind of boredom that comes not from having nothing to do, but from having too much space in your head. I was on vacation. A lot of my friends were busy, out of town, or in relationships that made them slowly disappear from our group chats.

It was just one of those nights—too quiet, too slow. I was on break from school, not really going out, stuck in that space between doing nothing and wanting to do something. So I opened the app store and searched aimlessly.

I clicked "download" before I even thought about it. A spontaneous decision made by a spontaneous person, I told myself. Just to see what was out there.

I didn't think I'd actually stay.

Most people I talked to left the same impression—loud, chaotic, or way too forward. Everyone seemed to want something right away. A label. A date. A conversation that already felt like a game.

So when I sent her that first message—"Hi, how are you?"—I wasn't expecting much.

She replied with a short but soft "hii," and I almost scrolled away. It felt like another dead-end chat.

But then, for some reason, I paused. Her profile didn't have much. No flashy bio. Just a simple intro, a line about school, and a sleepy-looking picture. She didn't look like she was trying to impress anyone.

So I tried again.

I told her I had just downloaded the app out of boredom, that I was on vacation and trying to kill time.

"This was a random decision," I said, "made by a random guy who's currently extremely bored."

She laughed. Actually typed out "hahaha" like she meant it.

"That's why I downloaded it too," she replied. "But almost everyone here is trying to date. TT Like... this isn't even a dating app."

I smiled. That was the first time she made me laugh, quietly to myself.

"I guess everyone's just bored," I said.

"Boredom seems to make them braver"

We kept talking that night. Not for long. But it wasn't dry. It wasn't forced. There was something soft about the way she answered. Something tired, but curious.

I found myself checking my phone the next day.

Then again the next.

Her messages always had a quiet honesty to them. She didn't try to say something deep or philosophical. But she paid attention. And I noticed that.

She asked how my day was. Not as a formality, but like she really wanted to know.

And when I asked her things, she didn't give me one-word answers like most people.

She told me what she was struggling with at school. How hard it was to balance everything. How drained she felt trying to be everything for everyone.

I listened.

And I started responding longer. Not out of obligation—but because I wanted to.

We didn't talk every second of the day. And that was part of what made it easy.

No pressure.

She didn't ask for attention. She didn't guilt me if I replied late. And I never felt like I had to keep her interested.

But slowly, something changed.

I started remembering her little habits. The way she'd say "TT" when something annoyed her. The way she'd write "lolol" when she didn't know how to respond but wanted to sound light.

She sent me a photo of her cat once, sleeping like a weird noodle across her bed.

I laughed for real. "He looks like he's been through five midterms," I texted.

She said, "Honestly, me too."

That's when I knew—I liked the way she thought. The way she turned even small things into something I wanted to keep reading.

She was easy to talk to. Not in a shallow, rapid-fire kind of way. More like... gentle current. Like walking in a quiet park after rain. Calm, but warm.

We talked for a long time that night. Longer than I expected. We didn't even notice the time. It was mostly small things at first. What she was studying. What I liked to read. What kind of music we each listened to when we couldn't sleep.

But even then, I knew she was different.

She was just... her.

The conversations didn't stop after that.

If anything, they only grew.

————————————————

Sometimes, I'd be walking outside and snap a photo of the road. A soft sky. Streetlights reflecting off the pavement. I didn't know why I was sending those things to her at first. Maybe I just wanted her to see the world the way I was seeing it.

She replied once:

"It looks cold."

I remember typing back:

"It is. But still bearable."

I don't know why I chose that word. But it felt right.

Cold. But manageable. A little like how life felt sometimes.

I started noticing little things.

Like how her messages always had this careful energy. As if she was used to being misunderstood, so she chose her words gently.

Or how she'd often ask questions no one else bothered with:

"What calms you when you're overthinking?"

"Do you ever feel like you're not really living, just floating?"

"What kind of silence do you like—crowded silence, or the kind where it's just you and the sky?"

She asked things like that. And meant them.

It made me want to answer honestly.

And so I did.

To continued...