Love Through Wrong Number

Love Through Wrong Number

When a random text finds the right heart

Sara hated evenings the most. Mornings were rushed, afternoons were noisy and distracted, but evenings were quiet in a way that made her feel too aware of being alone. She’d sit on her couch, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something she couldn’t name.

One Tuesday night, while reheating leftover pasta, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

Finally reached home. What a day! 😩

Sara squinted at the message. Definitely not for her. She ignored it.

A minute later:

Don’t ignore me—you know I hate when you do that.

She snorted. This person clearly thought they were talking to someone familiar. She typed:

You’ve got the wrong person.

A pause.

Wait… aren’t you Rida?

No.

😳 Oh. Great. I just emotionally spilled on a stranger to start my week.

Sara glanced at the bubbling pasta sauce.

It’s okay. People usually just send scam links. You’re at least dramatic.

He sent a clapping emoji.

I’m Ayan. Professional wrong-number texter, apparently.

She hesitated, then typed:

Sara.

That was it for the night—but the silence didn’t feel heavy for once.

⸻

The next evening, at almost the same time, her phone buzzed again.

Update: I reheated rice so badly it turned into a brick. Your pasta survived?

Sara laughed before she could stop herself. She didn’t plan to respond—yet her fingers betrayed her.

Barely. The pasta died a second death tonight.

That kicked off another round of random conversation—food disasters, annoying co-workers, mutual hatred of pineapple on pizza. By the end of the week, 6:30 p.m. was no longer the loneliest part of Sara’s day.

They never exchanged pictures. They never asked for Instagram. It was oddly freeing—like talking from behind a curtain.

One night, he wrote:

Ever notice how strangers are sometimes easier to talk to than family?

She stared at the message longer than usual.

Maybe because strangers don’t expect anything.

Or maybe, he replied, because they listen without trying to fix you.

She didn’t know him, but somehow, she understood him.

⸻

A few days later, he sent a voice note of his laughter at something she’d written. She held off playing it for almost a minute, nerves buzzing. When she finally pressed play, his voice came through—warm, slightly husky, calm in a way that wrapped around her like a blanket.

She surprised herself by sending one back.

Confession, she said in the recording, I don’t actually return supermarket carts. I shove them in the corner like a polite criminal.

He sent back an overly dramatic gasp.

Unbelievable. I’m texting a menace to society.

⸻

Their chats grew longer—less small talk, more honesty. One night, he asked why she lived alone.

Because being with the wrong people feels lonelier than being by yourself.

He took a moment before replying.

Yeah. I get that.

She didn’t ask about his past. He never pressed about hers. Yet a strange trust formed between them, like two people sitting on opposite rooftops talking across the night.

⸻

One Friday evening, when she was half-asleep watching TV, her phone buzzed again.

Can I tell you something without you freaking out?

Her heartbeat stuttered.

Okay?

I’m starting to like you. Not the casual kind. The dangerous kind.

She read it twice. And again.

You don’t even know what I look like, she finally typed.

Maybe I don’t need a face to like someone. Or maybe I picture one based on your sarcasm and pasta obsession.

She tried to breathe normally.

I like you too, she wrote, before she could talk herself out of it.

His reply came a minute later.

So we’re officially two idiots who caught feelings through wrong numbers. Impressive.

For the rest of the night, neither of them pretended it was just friendly banter.

⸻

But the next day, around evening, he sent something different.

I’m going somewhere tomorrow. Something I need to end before I start something new.

Her stomach tightened.

Are you going to meet your girlfriend to break up? she typed, then instantly regretted it.

Was. Not is. And yeah. he replied.

She deleted three replies before giving up and saying nothing.

He didn’t text again that night.

⸻

The next day was painfully quiet. She kept checking her phone, annoyed at herself for caring. By evening, she’d convinced herself she’d been foolish.

Then at 7:02 p.m., the screen lit up.

Sara.

She exhaled so hard it almost sounded like a laugh.

Yeah?

It’s done. Finally over.

She hesitated.

Are you okay?

Yes. For the first time in months.

They talked for hours—more honestly than before. He apologized for not telling her sooner. She admitted she’d imagined the worst.

Near midnight, he sent:

Can I see you?

Her pulse kicked.

You really want to?

More than anything. Tomorrow. I’ll come to your building entrance at 6. I’ll call when I’m outside.

She almost said no. Almost hid behind the safety of the screen. Instead, she wrote one word:

Okay.

⸻

The next day, at 5:55 p.m., she was already downstairs. Every sound made her jump. Her heart was performing live drama in her chest.

At 6:01, her phone rang—from the number she knew too well.

She answered.

“Hello?”

The voice she’d only heard through recordings said softly, “Turn around.”

She did.

Ayan stood a few steps away—taller than she’d imagined, nervous smile, phone still at his ear. They lowered their phones at the same time.

He walked up, smile unsure but hopeful.

“So… not Rida.”

Sara laughed, breath catching.

“And you’re definitely dramatic.”

He looked at her like she was the answer to an unsent question.

“Are you real?”

“You’re the wrong number,” she said quietly, “that got everything right.”

For the first time in a long time, the silence between two people felt like belonging.