Let’s not have a session, let’s just have a chilled time.

[MrsObvious]

After chatting and getting to know each other for several months, I finally gathered the courage to meet him. Time and privacy had both aligned, and that made the moment feel quietly right.​

I took an Uber to the place we had agreed upon. As I stepped out of the taxi, I noticed a man sitting with his back toward me, wearing what looked like a yellow—maybe orange—sweatshirt. For a second, I hesitated. I lowered my head slightly and looked again. Yes, it was him—absorbed in his phone, scrolling up and down, completely unaware of my presence.
I walked closer and softly said, “Hi.”
He looked up, met my eyes, and smiled.
“Hello.”
And just like that, months of words finally found a face.
Right from the word go, there was an ease between us—comfort and warmth wrapping the moment quietly. We spoke casually, without effort, letting the conversation wander wherever it wanted to go. The topics blurred into each other, things I can now only vaguely remember, but the feeling stayed clear. It wasn’t about what was said as much as how natural it all felt, like two people slipping into a rhythm they had already been practicing for months.
Amidst the conversation, I casually mentioned many things—one of them being, “Let’s not have a session, let’s just have a chilled time.” I didn’t realise then how carelessly those words had slipped out.
Unaware of the weight they carried, we went on to order our scrumptious meal, savouring every bite, lingering over flavours and laughter. Time moved easily. Before I knew it, we had booked an Uber to his place, the evening unfolding in ways that felt unplanned yet strangely seamless.
The Uber happily announced destination reached, and before I knew it, I was smiling to myself. He got down first—of course he did—opening the door like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I slipped out after him, already falling into step beside him. As we walked toward his apartment, my thoughts bounced around cheerfully, pretending to be casual, while quietly taking cues from him.
I noticed how easily I matched his pace, how instinctively I let him lead, and instead of questioning it, I found myself enjoying it. My mind felt lighter, almost giddy, as if it was relieved to hand over the reins for a while. There was a playful flutter in my chest—less nerves, more surrender dressed up as excitement. I wasn’t overthinking anymore; I was simply following, trusting the moment, letting myself be guided with an ease that felt surprisingly sweet.
He paused to pull the keys from his pocket, and as he unlocked the door, I stood a few steps behind him—watching, waiting, rehearsing. It was me versus me in my head, anticipation arguing with restraint. The door opened wide. He walked in, and I followed. He stopped to remove his shoes; I mirrored him instinctively, slipping out of mine, my thoughts already running far ahead of my body.
My mind raced—hoping, waiting for something unnamed—but instead, he walked into his room, seamlessly continuing a conversation we were already deep into. He settled in front of his monitor and began showing me things that genuinely interested us both. He spoke with ease, with that effortless charm he carried so well, sharing stories from his past—some good, some bad, some unapologetically ugly.
I listened… mostly. In truth, I found myself watching the way his lips moved, the rhythm of his words, the pauses in between. More than once, my thoughts wandered dangerously—to how easy it would be to close the distance, to sit on his lap, to kiss him—and just as quickly, I snapped myself back with a quiet, playful warning: Thou shall behave.
I won’t lie—I found myself wishing he would catch me off guard, pull me closer by surprise, and make me live out a few fantasies I had carefully tucked away in my mind. Ahem. But none of that happened.
Instead, the hours slipped by wrapped in conversation—easy, engaging, and thoroughly enjoyable. I savored every bit of it, the comfort, the connection, the way time seemed to soften around us. Just as I was settling into that quiet rhythm, a phone call interrupted us.
And it went on… and on… and on.
Each passing second tested my patience, tugging me out of the moment I didn’t want to leave. I sat there, half-listening, half-waiting, my thoughts drifting back to everything unsaid, undone—smiling to myself, caught between indulgence and restraint once again.
It was well past midnight by then. My eyes had begun to grow heavy, the warmth of the room and the long hours finally catching up with me—yet that phone call refused to end. It continued and continued, stretching time in the most impatient way. I sat there blinking slowly, fighting sleep, silently counting seconds, waiting for the moment to return to us, to the night that seemed determined to linger… even if the call did not.
At that moment, I didn’t feel valued or cared for—I felt like a decorative throw pillow, quietly existing in the room, totally replaceable. Sleep finally won for a few rebellious minutes, just enough to escape the endless phone chatter.
When my eyes opened, the call was still going strong—loud, unbothered, completely ignoring the fact that my butterflies had quietly packed their bags and left. I couldn’t help muttering to myself: Bravo. A flawless display of wasting my privacy, my time, and my fleeting hopes. Honestly, who needs enemies when you have a phone call like this?
Eventually, it mercifully ended. In a fit of bratty defiance, I threatened to post about the KLPD online —hahaha, because why not make my protest public? What happened after that is… well, let’s just say my memory is conveniently selective, or maybe some things are better left as little secrets. Either way, I was equal parts exasperated and secretly enjoying the power of my mischief, even if softly surrendered.