She had been texting him for two months now. She started sending him photos from work. Sometimes she'd fluff her hair and pout her lips to show him it had been a rough day. Other times, when it was far too busy for her to step out and get a breath of fresh air, she'd sneak a quick selfie in the bathroom mirror before returning to work.

He'd couple her photos with pictures of his desk, never sending a photo of himself. He was always organized. Sometimes there would be a stack of paperwork in the right corner of his desk or a cup of coffee sitting by the left corner of his keyboard, but never his face. It almost took everything in her power to not beg for a selfie. Mr. Y was still a mystery man, and obviously he desired to remain that way.

"You still don't know his name yet?" Meg cried.

"I know," Christine winced.

"Why don't you just ask him for it?"

"I thought that if he really cared to tell me, he would do so on his own."

Meg groaned. Christine knew she was being ridiculous.

This man was supposed to be taking her on dates and dragging her back to bed at the end of a long day (or at least that's what she thought he was supposed to be doing), but she still couldn't bring herself to ask him any personal questions beyond "How was your day?" Even when she did take a shot at it, asking about his position at the big-name architecture and engineering firm he worked at, he would dismiss the topic.

It's boring, sweety. I'd rather not bother you with the details, he told her.

Excuses, she thought. For all she knew he could've actually been dealing drugs.

"I just don't know what to do, Meg. He's been so generous and hasn't asked anything of me."

"Maybe he just likes the idea of having being in a relationship."

Christine sighed. "Maybe."

"What are you so upset about? If I could have a man provide for me like that—no strings attached—I'd be happy."

"That's the problem," she whispered, shifting in her seat. "I feel like there is something, he just hasn't asked for it yet."

"Well, if that's the case," Meg paused to sigh, "enjoy it while it lasts."

I've lost count of how many times this week I've listened to your cover of Faust.

Christine had forgotten she posted a link for her old YouTube channel on her profile. The fact he even visited it after moving their conversation to text messaging was surprising in itself.

Was it good? I can't remember.

Magnificient.

She nearly laughed. She loved to sing when she was younger, it was her passion. She wanted to go to school for it, but after bombing her audition she decided it wasn't for her. She was used to singing for herself and her father. She sang because she loved it, not because she wanted to be the best or to be judged, she just wanted to sing.

Funny, she replied. I'm probably horrible now. I haven't sung for so long.

His reply was delayed. I don't understand. If I had a voice like yours I'd sing every day.

She used to. She couldn't remember the last time she had.

Would you sing again? For me?

His message stunned her. For the past several months this man had helped pay off her father's hospital bills, allowed her to afford a few luxuries she hadn't been able to in a long while, provided her with the consistent company she missed receiving from her friends, and never asked anything in return. But now this.

What would you want me to sing? She thought maybe he'd want her to upload again or send him a video.

I don't care what you sing, just sing.

Christine ran through scales, recording herself and playing it back as she used to. She frowned. She was nowhere close to where she used to be. She tried singing one of her favorite aria's "Printemps qui commence" but the music wasn't there. Half an hour later she tried again, putting her music on shuffle and singing along to whatever played.

It was practically self-torture. What used to feel like second nature to her was now exhausting. What happened to her? Why did she not love music anymore?

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong and she didn't like it one bit.

Christine stopped the music and threw her phone to the opposite corner of her room, watching as it landed softly in her laundry basket. She couldn't do it. She couldn't sing.

She was about to cry when she heard her phone ding with a new text alert. She got up and crossed the room, opening it to another message from him.

I'm leaving work now. You should look at the moon.

She headed outside to her driveway, looking to the sky to find a large, orange moon rising overhead.

It's huge!

The Harvest Moon, he replied.

She spent a while longer staring at it. When was the last time she actually took a moment to look to the sky? When was the last time she hadn't noticed it besides the times when it was overcast?

I wish I could see you right now.

Christine paused at the text. This man had been texting her for the past two months, never asking her out on a date or even showing a sliver of interest in desiring to meet her face-to-face. But now, after so long? She didn't know what to do.

He could come to her house, he could meet her and speak to her truly for the first time. He wasn't far, she knew, because the site had linked her to locals. He could drive straight from his work to her place and tell her all about his day (or tell him about hers considering he always wanted to spare her the "boring details"). She'd make him a cup of tea from that luxury tea brand she had wanted to try for so long and only recently purchased, they could snuggle up on the couch and watch a movie or just head straight to bed, and if he wanted to kiss her she would allow it. If he wanted her to touch him, she'd be fine with that too.

Christine shook her head, shocked by her wandering mind. She didn't know this man. He might've just been setting her up to believe she would be okay with loving him. She didn't know what he looked like, didn't know his first name, hardly knew of his own hobbies. He could've been lying to her.

Or maybe he was just as lonely as she was.

I wish I could see you too.