He met her at a mutual friend’s dinner. She told a story about her old apartment where the ceiling leaked every time it rained, but only in a way, she said, that felt poetic. “Like the building was crying, but only when it had something important to say.” He thought: this is the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.
By the time for dessert, he knew they would marry.
He knew fate would intervene the following week. He’d bump into her at a bookstore or maybe the farmer’s market—the kind with heirloom radishes and people who say heirloom radishes. She’d touch his arm. They’d have coffee, then dinner, then a life together. He pictured their kitchen: warm, light-filled, full of bowls of fruit there purely for aesthetic purposes. He imagined her asleep beside him, her breathing so peaceful it seemed spiritually advanced. They’d have a cat with a name like Gertrude or Pablo, a cat who hated everyone except them, proof of their rare and special bond.
But fate would not intervene (as they would one day tell their grandkids). So the next day, he would message her—brief but clever. She would reply almost immediately with a joke of her own —about ceiling leaks. Flirtatious. Intimate. Practically a vow.
They would get coffee. No—dinner would be better, he imagined. She would laugh at all his jokes, even the one about the existential crisis of houseplants. She would tilt her head when he talked, which he was pretty sure was a sign of romantic interest. Or mild confusion. But either way, as dinner ended, she would say, “We should do this again,” and touch his arm. This was clearly destiny unfolding.
But it would not be happily ever after, at least not yet, he told himself. The next time they would meet, something would be... different. She would seem quieter. Distracted. He would text her a funny meme afterward. She would respond with “Haha,” without punctuation.
Without punctuation!
At coffee, he would tell her the story of his childhood dog, Max, who had a soulful limp, the kind that seemed to imply he was working through emotional damage, which was why Max had meant so much to him. She would say, “aw. yeah. dogs are great.”
Dogs are great? What was next, water is wet?
He would sense it splintering. His texts would slide from “want to grab dinner?” to “hey, no worries if you’re busy, but would love to catch up!” and the read receipt would spiral: Message Sent. Message Delivered. Message Read.
Then silence.
Weeks would pass. Finally, he imagined, they’d see each other at a gallery opening. She’d spot him. Wave. Hope would flicker. They’d make small talk. He’d try to sound worldly and mysterious, as if he’d been too busy discovering rare jazz records to miss her. And then a man would join them. Tall. Confident. The kind of man who probably gave TED Talks about synergy.
“This is my boyfriend,” she would say. The boyfriend would shake his hand firmly and say, “Oh, you’re the one with the dog thing.”
And she would laugh a little too loudly. “Right! The dog with the limp!”
And because he had already rehearsed this most likely outcome, he quietly grabbed his coat before dessert and left the dinner party without saying goodbye.
As he walked home, he rethought it: she actually noticed him leave, and was now chasing after him into the cold. “Wait,” she’d say, breathless, cheeks flushed from the wine and the wanting.
But in reality, the only thing that followed him was the sound of her absence, echoing in his head just a little too loudly.
Author: Joseph V. Velaidum has been writing flash fiction for over a decade, but the impetus for publishing them came from an unlikely source. He was the fortunate (or, perhaps, fated) individual whose near-miss with a meteorite crash in Prince Edward Island (Canada) became a global headline in early 2025. The event was featured in many hundreds of new stories across the world, including all of the major news agencies, such as The New York Times, The Guardian, NPR, BBC, CNN etc.).
This life-altering experience—missing a meteorite hit by mere minutes, and it seems by sheer luck— compelled him to reflect and reevaluate his priorities and underscored the urgency of pursuing what truly matters to him: a passion for storytelling. Over the past decade, he has been encouraged to seek publication for his fiction but has been reluctant to do so, until now. He is now in the process of submitting many of his stories for publication.
What a powerful story. Congrats on your first publication, Joseph!