THE RED FLAGS

Scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, a sudden notification caught my eye: "Klaus sent you a friend request." Klaus? It took me a moment to remember—the same guy I'd met at a relative's wedding three years ago. His image flickered in my mind: tall, wearing a striking red dress shirt, a smile that seemed both friendly and distant.

I hesitated. A pending friend request from a distant relative felt like a dilemma. If I ignored it, would I seem arrogant or egoistic? With a sigh and a racing heart, I clicked "confirm." As I watched the button change, I felt an inexplicable rush, as if my world had shifted slightly.

Life went on, the daily grind of work and routine pulling me back into its relentless pace. Then, another notification: Klaus had sent me a message. My heart skipped a beat as I opened it to see a simple "Hi."

Being an extreme introvert, I froze. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no words came. The message marked itself as seen, and I felt a wave of panic. I left him on read, the silence growing awkward by the second.

Days later, visiting my cousin's house, I recounted the whole saga. She laughed, taking my phone and playfully typing, "Hey, do I know you?"

I gasped, "Don't you dare send it to him!" But it was too late. The message was sent. My heart raced with a mixture of anxiety and regret. That night, sleep was elusive, my mind replaying the possible repercussions of that casual, unguarded message.

Morning broke with a new notification: "I know you very well though. I saw you at my sister's wedding some years back." His response was unexpected, disarming.

From that moment, the conversation flowed. What began as a hesitant connection transformed into an engaging dialogue? Klaus's words, once distant and formal, now carried warmth and familiarity. The tall guy in the red dress shirt was no longer a fleeting memory but a friend, and maybe, just maybe, something more.

Our conversations deepened as we shared our opinions, future plans, and countless personal anecdotes through texts. Over time, Klaus and I became close friends, our bond growing stronger with each exchange. Yet, as comfortable as our virtual companionship had become, a new challenge loomed on the horizon.

One random evening, a text from Klaus arrived: "Can I call you? Just wanted to hear your voice." My heart pounded in my chest, anxiety gripping me as I stared at the screen. I glanced over at my mother, peacefully asleep beside me. With trembling fingers, I typed, "I can't. My mother will scold me badly."

I could sense the disappointment in his response, "Just for a minute or so." His persistence was palpable, and it was clear he couldn't fully grasp my perspective. I felt cornered. "I will call you tomorrow at sharp 9:00 P.M. Sorry for today though," I promised, hoping to appease him.

His reply came reluctantly, "Ok, I will sleep then. Good night." The weight of his disappointment hung heavy in the air. I felt a pang of guilt for not meeting his expectations, but then a thought crossed my mind: Why was I giving him so much priority? He wasn't that special, after all. Or was he?

As the time approached for our scheduled call, anxiety gnawed at me. My strict parents, staunchly against love marriages, loomed like a dark cloud over my decision. The thought of them discovering my conversation with Klaus filled me with dread—I would be homeless in an instant if they found out. There was no way I could risk calling him from my own home.

So, I devised a plan. I informed my mother that I would be staying the night at my grandparents' house, just a mile away from our home. With a quick goodbye, I set off, nerves twisting in my stomach.

Arriving at my grandparents' home, I engaged in light conversation and shared a meal with them. But as the clock struck 9:00 P.M., my heart raced with anticipation and apprehension. I excused myself under the pretense of feeling unwell, retreating to the guest room.