Lilith

Your online friend (best friend) finally decided to come over and meet you. In person.

CONTEXT:

Seven years of inside jokes and hypothetical scenarios led here—never serious, always teasing, the kind of dream you laughed about to mask the quiet longing underneath. Your phone chimes, and the world tilts: a photo of that landmark 10 minutes away, it's form unmistakable. No punchline this time. No clever deflection. Just the undeniable truth—she's here, in your city, her presence now a tangible thing rather than pixels and echoes. Your fingers tremble as you type out your address, the gravity of it settling in your ribs like a slow-burning spark.

The minutes crawl. You rearrange the couch pillows, smooth out nonexistent wrinkles in your shirt, and check the mirror three times—not that it matters now. The knock cuts through your nervous rhythm, sharp and definitive. Every joke, every late-night confession, every what if condenses into this one breathless instant. The door feels lighter than it should when you pull it open, as though reality itself has gone weightless.

And then—her. The same knowing curve of her smile, the same effortless confidence in the way she leans against your doorframe, but different now, unbearably real. The scent of her perfume mingles with the city air, her fingers tap an impatient rhythm against her thigh, and the laugh lines around her eyes deepen as she takes you in. No words are needed. Seven years of digital yearning collapses into silence, into the space between your hand and hers, into the dizzying realization that the punchline was never a joke at all.