Messages Into Midnight
Chapter 2 – Messages into Midnight
Sapa at night felt quieter than it should have.
The streets were still alive–vendors calling softly, motorbikes threading through narrow roads, the glow of shop signs reflected on damp pavement–but everything moved with restraint, as though the mountain air discouraged excess.
ABIX found dinner in a small place that smelled of broth and herbs. The restaurant was warm enough that Aleem’s fingertips finally stopped feeling numb. Condensation clung to the glass windows; outside, fog drifted past like a slow, deliberate tide.
Crystal sat opposite him, already halfway through planning the rest of the trip.
“Tomorrow is the climb,” she said, tapping her chopsticks against the rim of her bowl. “And after that, we should do something calmer. A proper café day. Something with heating.”
Belle nodded. “I would like that. My legs will probably be unhappy tomorrow.”
Ivan lifted his gaze from the menu. “You are not climbing?”
Crystal leaned back in her chair with casual certainty. “I have climbed enough mountains in my life to know I enjoy them from a distance.”
Belle glanced between Aleem and Ivan. “It is not strange to rest, you know. Fansipan is still a long day.”
Ivan’s expression barely shifted, but his agreement was implicit. “The base area has enough to do. We can explore nearby and meet you after.”
Aleem nodded, glad they had already decided without making it dramatic. He was not sure he wanted an audience for whatever tomorrow might become.
Crystal’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are remarkably quiet,” she observed. “And you have checked your phone three times.”
Aleem lowered his gaze to his bowl. “I have not.”
Ivan’s voice was mild. “You have.”
Belle’s smile was small but knowing. “Is it her?”
Aleem breathed out slowly, as if exhaling could erase their attention.
“Her name is Dasha,” he said, measured. “And she is joining the climb tomorrow. That is all.”
Crystal raised an eyebrow. “That is not ‘all,’ and you know it.”
Aleem met her gaze with calm defiance. “It is enough for tonight.”
Belle, ever gentle, did not push further. “I hope she has a good time. Climbing is easier when you are with someone who makes the struggle feel lighter.”
Ivan watched Aleem for a brief moment, then returned to his soup. “Be careful,” he said plainly.
Aleem almost laughed. “That is always your advice.”
“It is advice for a reason,” Ivan replied.
Crystal waved a hand dismissively. “He is not sixteen. He can handle a conversation.”
Ivan did not look up. “I meant with himself.”
Aleem went still for half a second.
Crystal, unexpectedly, did not tease him after that. She simply took a sip of her drink and let the conversation move on.
They ate, talked about the day, and planned meeting points for tomorrow. Aleem participated enough to look normal, but his attention kept drifting toward his phone as though it carried a current he could not ignore.
When dinner ended, the four of them walked back to the hotel through the cool Sapa night.
Belle lingered near a souvenir stall. Crystal insisted on buying hot chestnuts from a cart because the smell was “impossible to resist.” Ivan, as always, checked the route, even though they had already walked it twice.
Aleem stayed slightly behind, hands in his pockets, letting the cold bite at his ears.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
He did not have to look to know who it was.
Dasha: You are bold for someone who claims to be careful.
Aleem’s smile appeared before he could stop it.
He typed as he walked.
Aleem: I am careful about many things. Complimenting you is not one of them.
The reply came quickly.
Dasha: That is dangerous confidence.
Aleem: I will take responsibility for it.
A pause, then:
Dasha: Are you always like this?
Aleem considered the question longer than he should have.
He could have answered with humour. He could have leaned into charm and made it effortless.
But something about Dasha made that feel like a waste.
Aleem: No.
Aleem: I am like this when I mean it.
He pressed send and felt, absurdly, the faint thud of his own heartbeat.
A few steps ahead, Crystal turned and caught his expression.
She did not say anything.
She only smirked once, then faced forward again.
Back at the hotel, they split at the corridor.
Belle waved goodnight and disappeared into her room. Crystal went next, reminding Ivan to wake up on time even though he always did. Ivan nodded once, already mentally preparing for tomorrow.
Aleem entered his room last.
It was modest–clean bed, small desk, curtains slightly damp from the fog outside. He showered quickly, changed into a dry shirt, and stood by the window for a moment.
Sapa’s streetlights glowed like soft embers through the mist.
He checked his phone again.
There were three new messages.
Dasha: I like that you do not flatter without meaning.
Dasha: Many people compliment just to collect something.
Dasha: You do not feel like that.
Aleem read them twice.
It would have been easier to respond with something light.
Instead, he leaned back against the desk and typed slowly, deliberately.
Aleem: I am not interested in collecting anything.
Aleem: I am interested in people.
Aleem: And I am interested in you.
He stared at the last line, then sent it before doubt could edit him into silence.
His phone rang.
An incoming call.
Dasha.
Aleem hesitated only long enough to feel his own caution rise–and then he answered.
“Hello,” he said.
Her voice filled the room in a way text never could.
“Hi,” Dasha replied, warm and calm. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Aleem said quickly, then softened. “I was just… looking out the window. Thinking.”
“What were you thinking about?”
The question was simple, but it carried an invitation.
Aleem exhaled.
“Today,” he admitted. “And tomorrow.”
Dasha laughed softly. “You are overpreparing.”
“That is my default,” Aleem said. “It prevents disappointment.”
There was a brief pause on the line.
Then Dasha said, gently, “Or it invites it.”
Aleem’s mouth tightened at the accuracy.
“You are very direct,” he said.
“I prefer truth,” she replied. “You do not?”
“I do,” Aleem said. “I just… calculate it first.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Dasha observed.
Aleem laughed under his breath. “It can be.”
Their conversation flowed with surprising ease. They spoke about the village–what she had noticed, what he had missed. They talked about the strange comfort of misty places, about how cold weather made people honest because it stripped away patience for performance.
Dasha told him about Kazakhstan, about wide skies and long roads, about the kind of loneliness that existed even when the landscape was open.
“Sometimes,” she said, “it is not about being alone. It is about feeling unseen.”
Aleem listened, silent for a moment.
“I know that feeling,” he said finally.
Dasha did not rush him. She let the quiet sit until it became safe.
“Do you travel often?” she asked.
“Yes,” Aleem replied. “But not always for leisure. Sometimes it is work. Sometimes it is… escape.”
“Escape from what?”
Aleem hesitated.
His instinct was to deflect.
But something in her tone made it difficult to pretend.
“From routines,” he said slowly. “From expectations. From the version of myself that people think is stable.”
Dasha hummed softly, as though she understood.
“And what version are you really?”
Aleem swallowed.
“I am more complicated than I look,” he said, voice quiet. “Most people are.”
“I think you are,” Dasha replied. “That is why I wanted to talk to you.”
The words should not have made his chest tighten.
But they did.
They moved through lighter topics again–food, music, weather, the ridiculousness of hiking gear. Dasha teased him for how neatly he had planned tomorrow.
“You will bring emergency snacks,” she predicted.
“I will,” Aleem admitted. “It is called being responsible.”
“It is called being a father,” she countered.
Aleem laughed, surprised. “I am not that old.”
“You have father energy,” Dasha said, completely serious. “Protective. Prepared. Like you carry the world’s problems in your backpack.”
Aleem leaned back on the bed, phone pressed to his ear.
“That is unfairly accurate,” he said.
“Then I am observant.”
“And I am in trouble,” Aleem murmured.
Dasha’s laughter was low, genuine.
“Maybe you like trouble,” she said.
Aleem’s smile softened.
“Maybe I like you,” he replied.
The line went quiet for a breath.
Not awkward.
Full.
Dasha spoke first.
“I like you too,” she said, as if it was simply a fact. “That is why I am still on the phone.”
Aleem closed his eyes.
The mountain air outside pressed cool against the glass, fog dragging itself across the window like slow ink.
Inside, the room felt warmer than it should have.
They kept talking.
The clock shifted forward without permission–ten, eleven, past midnight. Their voices softened as the night deepened. Dasha’s words slowed, her laughter becoming quieter. Aleem found himself speaking less and listening more, letting the sound of her voice settle into him like a steady pulse.
At one point, Dasha said, “You are quiet.”
“I am listening,” Aleem replied.
“Why?”
Aleem opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.
“Because you feel… real,” he said, and surprised himself with how easily the truth came.
Dasha did not answer immediately.
Then she said, very softly, “You feel real too.”
Another pause.
Aleem’s voice dropped.
“Tomorrow will be exhausting,” he said.
“Yes,” Dasha replied.
“And cold.”
“Yes.”
“And if you regret joining–”
“I will not,” she interrupted gently.
Aleem exhaled. “You are certain.”
“I am not certain of many things,” Dasha said. “But I am certain I want to climb. And I am certain I want to do it with you.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He looked at the phone in his hand as if it could explain what was happening.
“I will pick you up in the morning,” he said, steadying his tone. “We will meet at eight.”
“Eight,” Dasha echoed. “Do not be too early.”
Aleem smiled. “I will try.”
Dasha’s voice softened again.
“Goodnight, Aleem.”
“Goodnight, Dasha.”
He ended the call and lay still for a long moment.
The room was quiet again, but the silence felt different now–less empty, more expectant.
Aleem stared at the fog beyond the window.
He should have felt nervous.
He did.
But beneath the nerves was something else.
A dangerous, unfamiliar warmth.
Hope.