The man across the table, a lawyer named Greg whose primary personality trait seemed to be his own billable hour, was explaining the nuances of water rights litigation. At least, Addison thought that’s what he was doing. It was hard to be sure. His voice was a low, self-satisfied drone, the verbal equivalent of beige carpeting.

“…so of course, the riparian doctrine is fundamentally at odds with prior appropriation, which is why West Texas is a minefield, legally speaking,” he concluded, taking a smug sip of his Napa Cabernet. He looked at her expectantly, as if he’d just recited a particularly moving sonnet.

“Fascinating,” Addison said, arranging her face into an expression of polite interest she usually reserved for partners’ meetings. She’d met Greg through a mutual acquaintance at the bar association. On paper, he was perfect. Successful, conventionally handsome, owned a home in Tarrytown. In person, he was a human sedative.

“And what about you?” he asked, the question feeling like a box he had to check before he could move on to his next monologue. “Heard you had a big win last week. Must have felt good.”

“It did,” Addison began, a flicker of genuine enthusiasm breaking through her stupor. “It was a complex liability case, and the opposing counsel thought he could bury us in discovery, but we found this one precedent from…”

“Right, right,” Greg interrupted, nodding as if he understood completely, though his eyes had already glazed over. “It’s always satisfying to out-maneuver the other guy. Reminds me of this one time, in a deposition…”

And he was off again. Addison took a slow, deliberate sip of her own wine, letting the conversation wash over her. She watched his mouth move, listened to the self-important cadence of his voice, and found her mind drifting a thousand miles northeast.

Kurt would have leaned in. He would have stopped her mid-sentence, not to cut her off, but to dig deeper. ‘Wait, what was the precedent? Did he cite it himself? God, the irony.’ He would have asked for the details, not out of professional obligation, but because he was genuinely fascinated by the way her mind worked, by the thrill of her victory. He would have seen the strategy, the fight, the intellectual chess match she’d won. Greg just saw a checked box labeled ‘career success.’

Greg was laughing at his own story now, a loud, braying sound that made the couple at the next table glance over. Addison offered a tight smile. She thought about the way Kurt laughed—that low, rumbling chuckle that started deep in his chest, the one that made her feel like she was the wittiest person on the planet, even when she was just pointing out a typo in one of his press releases.

“You’re a sharp one, Addison,” Greg said, reaching across the table to pat her hand. The touch was clammy and proprietary. “It’s good to see a woman who can keep up.”

The condescension was so blatant, so utterly clueless, that she almost laughed for real. Kurt would have eviscerated that line. He would have done it with a smile, a surgical strike of wit that Greg wouldn’t have understood until three days later. ‘Keep up? Addy doesn’t keep up. She sets the goddamn pace and you’re lucky if she lets you draft behind her.’ She could hear his voice in her head so clearly, a fierce, protective snarl wrapped in sarcasm.

The rest of the dinner passed in a similar haze. Greg talked about his boat, his golf handicap, his portfolio. He was a collection of impressive assets with no cohesive personality holding them together. He was a closing argument with no evidence to back it up. When the waiter finally brought the check, a wave of profound relief washed over Addison.

“I had a really nice time,” Greg said as they stood outside the restaurant, the warm Texas air thick with the scent of jasmine and exhaust fumes. “We should do this again. I’m free next Thursday.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, an assumption. For a split second, she considered the path of least resistance. A simple ‘sure, text me’ would end this awkward curbside moment. But the thought of sitting through another two hours of the Greg Show was physically painful. It felt like a betrayal, not to herself, but to the standard of connection she knew was possible. A standard set by late-night phone calls and a shared history that made this kind of empty posturing feel like a foreign language.

“Greg,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re a great guy. But I don’t think we’re a match.”

He looked momentarily stunned, his confidence faltering for the first time all night. “Oh. Okay. Well. Your loss.”

“Maybe,” she said with a noncommittal smile. She turned and walked toward her car, the click of her heels on the pavement a countdown to freedom. She didn’t feel a sense of loss. She felt nothing but an urgent, clawing need to hear a specific voice. To replace the dull drone of the past two hours with a quick, cutting wit that felt more like home than her own apartment. She got into her car, shut the door, and leaned her head back against the seat, the silence a blessed relief. Then, without a second thought, she pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the contact photo that had been there for ten years: a grainy, laughing picture of Kurt from college. She pressed call. She needed to hear him. Now.

He answered on the second ring, his voice slightly rough with sleep, and instantly alert. “Addy? What’s wrong?”

The sound of his voice, that immediate, unguarded concern, was a physical comfort. It smoothed over the grating annoyance of the last two hours. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. “I just survived the worst date of my entire adult life and I needed to report back from the front lines.”

A beat of silence, then she heard the rustle of sheets. He was sitting up. “Report,” he commanded, and she could already hear the smile in his voice.

“His name was Greg,” she began. “He spent twenty minutes explaining riparian water rights to me like he was bestowing a sacred text. He patted my hand and told me it was ‘good to see a woman who can keep up’.”

Kurt made a sound of profound disgust. “Oh, no. He didn't.”

“He did. And then he talked about his golf handicap. And his boat. Kurt, his personality is a portfolio of assets. He’s a walking LinkedIn profile.”

“Let me get this straight,” Kurt said, his voice taking on the surgically precise tone he used when he was about to dismantle a political opponent. “Greg the Aquarian, master of damp legal theory, complimented you for being able to follow his big, important man-thoughts?”

Addison let out a snort of laughter, the first genuine one of the night. “Greg the Aquarian,” she repeated, the name fitting so perfectly it was almost painful.

“This guy sounds like he buys his opinions in bulk at Costco,” Kurt continued, warming to his subject. “Did he wear a fleece vest? I’m picturing a fleece vest. Probably Patagonia. The official uniform of men who think having a 401(k) is a substitute for having a soul.”

“It was a navy blazer,” she corrected, her voice shaking with laughter. “But the energy was pure fleece vest.”

“Of course. The blazer is for the date, the vest is for his weekend ‘adventures’ to Home Depot. And the hand pat… Jesus. That’s a move. It’s not just condescending, it’s territorial. It’s like he was trying to claim you, like a piece of unclaimed baggage on a carousel.”

The image was so vivid, so absurdly accurate, that the laughter bubbling in Addison’s chest broke free. It was a loud, uninhibited laugh that filled the small space of her car. She tipped her head back against the headrest, gasping for air, tears starting to prick at the corners of her eyes. He kept going, his voice a low, merciless current in her ear.

“I bet he calls wine ‘vino’ and thinks Austin’s weirdness is something you can experience at a rooftop bar on a Saturday. He probably describes himself as an ‘alpha’ unironically.”

“Stop,” she pleaded, but she was laughing too hard to be convincing. Each word was another perfect strike, erasing the memory of Greg’s bland drone and replacing it with Kurt’s sharp, brilliant humor. The tears were streaming down her face now, a messy, cathartic release of frustration and loneliness and the sheer, overwhelming relief of being so completely, effortlessly understood.

She was laughing at Greg, but she was also laughing at the absurdity of a world where she was expected to find men like him compelling. The laughter was a dam breaking, washing away the entire awful evening. It finally subsided into hiccuping breaths, and she wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

“God,” she breathed out, a final chuckle escaping her. “Thank you. I really, really needed that.”

“Anytime, Addy,” he said, his voice softening from its sharp, satirical edge. The playful cruelty was gone, replaced by a familiar warmth that settled in her chest. “Demolishing the egos of mediocre men is my primary public service. But seriously, are you okay?”

“I am now,” she said, and it was the truest thing she’d said all night. She let out a long, slow breath. “It’s just… exhausting. The whole thing. Going through the motions, pretending to be interested in someone’s boat. Why is it so hard to find someone who you can actually talk to?”

A heavy sigh came through the phone, the sound of shared weariness. “You’re telling me,” Kurt said. “It’s like a second job you don’t get paid for and you hate your boss, your coworkers, and the company mission statement.”

Addison smiled faintly, tracing a pattern on her steering wheel. “How is it for you? Out there? I always imagine New York is different. A million people, there has to be someone…” Her voice trailed off.

“More people just means more opportunities for disappointment,” he said, his voice flat with a cynicism that felt bone-deep. “It’s all so… efficient. Transactional. Everyone is networking, even on a date. They’re sizing up your career, your connections, your five-year plan before they’ve even learned your middle name.”

“Greg asked me about my five-year plan,” she admitted, the memory making her cringe. “I wanted to tell him my five-year plan was to finish this glass of wine and never see his face again.”

A low chuckle came from Kurt, but it was hollow, devoid of the humor from moments before. “I went out with someone a few weeks ago. A strategist from another firm. Smart, driven, attractive… and the entire conversation felt like we were negotiating a treaty. Every question was a probe, every answer a carefully constructed position. There was no space for anything messy. For anything real.”

“That’s it,” Addison whispered, hitting on the core of her frustration. “That’s the word. ‘Real’. It’s what’s missing. I love my job, Kurt. You know I do. I live for that fight in the courtroom, the strategy, the win. It’s a high. But then I come home, and the silence in my apartment is just… so loud. And a night like tonight just makes it louder.” She had her career-defining win, a beautiful apartment, a life she’d meticulously built. And she was celebrating it by letting a man named Greg pat her hand and explain water rights to her. The emptiness of it was a physical ache.

“I know,” he said, his voice dropping so low it was almost a murmur, a private confession just for her. “The campaign is all-consuming. It’s adrenaline and coffee and putting out fires from sunrise until long after sunset. It’s what I’m good at. But when the day finally ends, and I’m standing at my window looking out at a million other lights, a million other lives, I’ve never felt more alone.”

The admission hung between them, raw and exposed. It was a truth they both lived but had never spoken aloud with such stark clarity. They were two successful people at the top of their respective games, in two of the country’s biggest cities, surrounded by people, yet profoundly lonely. Their careers were demanding, fulfilling even, but they were shields, not sustenance. They filled their days, but they couldn’t fill the quiet, cavernous spaces that opened up at night. The only thing that ever seemed to fill that space was the sound of the other’s voice, traveling across the static-filled miles.

“It’s the same silence,” Addison said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Austin or New York. It sounds the same.”

There was a long pause on the line, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with a decade of understanding, of knowing looks across crowded college bars and inside jokes whispered in libraries. It was the sound of two people who had built their own private world across a thousand miles of static.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who speaks the same language as me,” Kurt said, the words quiet and rough, as if they’d been pulled from a place he kept locked away. “I go on these dates, I talk to people at work, and it’s all just… noise. Nobody gets it. Not really. No one gets me the way you do.”

The words struck Addison with the force of a physical blow. Her breath caught in her throat. The comfortable warmth that had settled in her chest from their conversation instantly ignited, turning into something sharp, hot, and electric. It wasn't a new feeling, but hearing him voice it, hearing that specific, possessive confession—no one gets me the way you do—made it terrifyingly real. It was the secret truth she held in her heart, the one that made every date with men like Greg feel like a betrayal of something far more important.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The easy intimacy of a moment before had been replaced by a taut, humming tension. He hadn't said I love you. He hadn't said I want you. But he had said something more fundamental, more integral to who they were. He had claimed her understanding as his own, a singular comfort no one else could provide.

She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, a little unsteady. He had let the words out, and now they were just hanging there, in the space between his Manhattan apartment and her parked car in Austin. He didn't take them back. He didn't soften them with a joke. He just let them sit there, a testament to a truth too big to ignore any longer.

“Kurt, I…” she started, but her voice failed her. What could she say? You’re right? I feel the same way? Admitting it felt like stepping off a cliff. The friendship they had carefully maintained for years was a safe, known territory. This—this was something else entirely. Uncharted and dangerous.

“It’s late,” he said abruptly, his voice strained. He was retreating. They were both retreating. The vulnerability was too much. “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” she managed, her throat tight. “Yeah, you too. You have an early day.” It was their usual script, but the words felt foreign in her mouth, stiff and inadequate.

“Addy?” he said, his voice soft again, hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kurt.”

She pressed the end call button, the screen going dark, plunging her car back into silence. But it wasn't the lonely silence from before. It was a different kind now, ringing and profound. It was filled with the echo of his words. No one gets me the way you do. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the steering wheel, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was right. And that fact, once a source of simple comfort, now felt like a beautiful, terrifying problem with no clear solution. The distance between them had never felt so vast, or so insignificant.