The Machines Turn

Kat kept her phone on mute because the world was loud enough already, but she kept the screen face-up like it was a tiny altar. Every few minutes it lit up with nothing — no new messages, no missed calls — just the soft blue glow of possibility.

At 2:17 a.m. her time, she got used to the quiet in a way that felt like learning a new language with no teacher. She had started categorizing silences.

There was the “sleeping” silence, sweet and forgiving, like a cat curled on your feet.

There was the “busy” silence, the kind you could forgive because it had a schedule.

And then there was the long-distance silence, the one that didn’t mean anything was wrong but still made your chest do that small, humiliating lurch — like your heart had tripped over its own shoelaces.

Kat was learning that last one.

The first time she’d heard David's voice — really heard it, not just the “hello” version people give strangers — was through a broken headset in a study room that smelled like dry-erase markers and someone else’s anxiety. It was the beginning of autumn in Boston, and it was late spring in Auckland, and she hadn’t known a planet could hold two seasons at once until he laughed at something she said and the sound traveled twelve thousand miles to land in her ear like it belonged there.

They weren’t supposed to become anything. That was the rule. She was tutoring international students online for money; he had signed up because his cousin told him “American accents are basically cheat codes.” It was meant to be transactional- present perfect tense, idioms, the weird way Americans say “I’m good” when they mean “I’m fine-ish.”

But the second rule of the universe, Kat was discovering, was that rules were suggestions.

By the third week, their lessons were forty percent grammar and sixty percent life. He’d tell her about the ocean where he lived, how it sounded different on windy nights, like it was arguing with the shore. She’d tell him about the T’s back home that people didn’t pronounce, the way her city swallowed letters like it was shy. He’d ask what her favorite food was and then insist it sounded fake because she’d said “clam chowder” with a straight face.

“You eat… soup… with animals,” he’d said, horrified and delighted.

“Wait until you hear about lobster,” she’d replied.

And then, like a dare, like a little spark thrown into the dark, he said, “If I ever go to the U.S., you have to take me.”

It was the first “ever” they’d shared. The first future tense that wasn’t just an exercise.

Tonight, her apartment was a one-room box above a laundromat. The radiators hissed in a language older than her building, and the blinds were tilted just enough to let in the orange streetlight glow. There was a half-drunk mug of chamomile on her desk next to a notebook titled, ironically, Productivity. She hadn’t written in it for weeks.

Her screen showed David's last message from earlier- in a meeting, might be late. don’t wait up.

She stared at it like it was a riddle. Don’t wait up. She had no idea how to do that. Waiting was practically her love language at this point.

Her thumb hovered over the reply box. She wanted to say something clingy and honest, like I miss you so much it’s making me dumb, but she typed, okay :)

Because long-distance love came with a strange etiquette. You didn’t want to become a burden. You didn’t want your need to sound like a demand.

She put the phone down and tried to read, but the words turned into little black fish that refused to line up. She attempted a shower, as if hot water could reset her brain. She brushed her teeth with a level of commitment that felt vaguely spiritual. She put on the oversized hoodie she’d stolen from a thrift store because it smelled like nothing and therefore didn’t hurt.

When she came back, her phone was still quiet.

Kat sat on the edge of her bed and did the thing she hated admitting she did- she scrolled up through old messages. Like checking a museum exhibit called Proof You’re Not Making This Up.

There he was, a month ago- i told my sister about you. she asked if you’re real.

Two weeks ago- you’d hate the humidity here. it’s like air you can chew.

Three days ago- i saw a couple holding hands at the bus stop and i felt personally attacked by physics.

She smiled, despite herself. She had typed back, physics is a hater, and he’d replied, gravity is literally just the universe being clingy.

It was so dumb. It was perfect.

Her phone buzzed.

Kat's body reacted before her brain did. A bolt of relief, a jolt of joy, an almost comical surge of YES, as if her nervous system had been pacing and finally heard the key in the lock.

The call screen lit up- DAVID.

She answered so fast she nearly threw the phone. “Hi.”

There was a beat. The sound of breath, then his voice — low, a little tired, like he’d been holding it in his pocket all day. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoed, because she was not immune to becoming a parrot when happy.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay. I was… doing stuff.”

“Doing stuff,” he repeated, skeptical. “Was your stuff named staring at your phone?”

Kat laughed, caught. “Maybe.”

He exhaled like a smile. “I hate this.”

“The meeting?”

“No.” His voice dropped, honest. “This. The waiting. The time. The way I can’t just—” He paused. In the background she heard a distant kettle whistle, then fade. “I wanted to tell you something earlier and then I got stuck and now it’s your middle of the night and I feel like an idiot.”

Her stomach tightened in that special way it did when a moment arrived wearing a cloak. “Tell me.”

David was quiet for a second. When he spoke again, the words came careful, like he was carrying something fragile across a room full of sharp corners.

“I almost bought a plane ticket.”

Kat's brain stuttered. “Almost?”

“Yeah.” He let out a humorless laugh. “I had the tab open. I was staring at it like it was going to… answer me.”

“Answer what?”

“Whether I’m allowed to want this,” he said, and there it was — the sentence that hit her right in the ribs.

Kat swallowed. Outside her window, a car passed, music thumping faintly, somebody else’s life moving forward like it wasn’t scared.

“You’re allowed,” she said softly. “But why almost?”

He hesitated. “Money. Work. The fact that time zones are basically a practical joke. The fact that when I imagine you in person, it’s so… real that it terrifies me.”

Kat stared at the ceiling like it was going to offer structural support for her feelings. “Terrifies you?”

“Yeah,” David said. “Because if it’s real, then there’s more to lose.”

She didn’t have a clean comeback for that, no cute meme reply. She felt the truth of it in her bones. Long-distance did this thing where it made you brave and cowardly at the exact same time — brave enough to love someone you couldn’t touch, cowardly enough to hide behind a screen.

Kat took a breath. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“I’ve been pretending I’m chill about this,” she said, voice thin. “Like, ‘haha time zones, haha distance, we’re fine.’ But sometimes I get scared that you’ll just… fade. Not because you don’t care. Just because it’s hard. Because it’s easier to date a person who exists in your time zone. A person whose hand you can grab when the world feels like it’s spinning.”

David didn’t interrupt. She could hear him listening, the quiet weight of it.

“And then I hate myself for even thinking that,” Kat added, voice cracking on the edge of a laugh. “Because you’ve never given me a reason. But brains are… untrustworthy.”

“Brains are absolutely untrustworthy,” David said immediately, fierce agreement. “Brains are like, ‘Here’s a terrible scenario! Enjoy!’”

Kat snorted through the tension. “Exactly.”

He went softer. “You’re not a burden for feeling that.”

Her throat tightened. She stared at her mug, at the tea skin forming on top like a tiny lake freezing.

“I am,” she whispered, “kind of terrified too.”

“Of me fading?” he asked.

“Of you not,” she admitted. “Of you showing up and it being huge and real and then… what? We’ve built this whole thing out of voice notes and video calls and jokes. What if I’m awkward? What if you look at me and the vibe dies instantly?”

David made a sound that was half laugh, half protest. “Kat. You asked me what my favorite smell was and I said ‘rain’ like a tragic Victorian boy and you didn’t hang up. You’re stuck with me.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, smiling. “That is not legally binding.”

“It is emotionally binding,” he insisted. “Different system. Same jail.”

She pictured him in his kitchen — she knew the layout from video calls. The little plant on the windowsill he’d named “Gary” because he claimed it gave off “Gary energy.” The dish rack always slightly too full. The way he’d lean against the counter when he got serious.

“Okay,” Kat said. “So what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I keep thinking there’s supposed to be a right way to do this. Like a tutorial pops up- Congrats! You have a long-distance relationship. Here are your next steps.”

“No ads?” Kat asked. “No subscription?”

“Premium plan is just pain,” David said dryly.

She laughed, but it didn’t fully cover the ache. “We could… make it less vague.”

David hummed. “Go on.”

“We could pick something real. A date. Not, like, a fantasy future. Something actual. Like… you visit in summer. Or I visit you. We put it on the calendar and then it’s not just… wishing.”

There was silence again, but it wasn’t the bad kind. It was the kind where you could feel someone thinking, moving pieces around in their head, trying to build a bridge that could hold weight.

“I can do August,” David said finally. “If I start saving now and if my boss doesn’t spontaneously combust.”

Kat's heart did an alarming little leap. “August. Like… this August?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice steadying as he said it, as if the words themselves made him sturdier. “I’ll come to you. You can show me the letter-swallowing city. And your animal soup.”

Kat laughed, but tears stung her eyes. “And then you’ll finally learn what ‘wicked’ means.”

“I already know what it means,” David protested.

“No,” she said, smiling through the blur. “You think it means evil. That’s adorable. You’re going to get roasted by teenagers.”

“I am not afraid of teenagers,” he lied.

“Bold,” Kat said. “Incorrect, but bold.”

David's voice softened again. “Kat?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to fade,” he said. “I don’t want us to be this… beautiful, fragile thing that only exists in Wi-Fi. I want to be able to—” He stopped, searched. “I want to be able to hold your hand in a grocery store and complain about prices together. I want boring. I want real.”

Kat closed her eyes. The word boring had never sounded so romantic.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. August.”

“August,” he echoed, and it felt like a promise being poured into the space between them.

Kat wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie and immediately got mad at herself for crying, but also not really, because she was tired of being tough for no reason.

“I’m gonna be annoying about it,” she warned. “Like, I’m going to send you spreadsheets.”

“I hope you do,” David said. “Weaponize your competence.”

“I will,” Kat said. “I will become terrifying.”

“You’re already terrifying,” he replied. “You once explained the difference between ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ with the intensity of a prosecutor.”

“That’s because people get it wrong,” she said, righteous.

David chuckled. “See? Terrifying.”

They stayed on the phone longer than they should have, talking about dumb logistics like flights and time off and where he’d sleep. They made jokes about him bringing a suitcase full of New Zealand snacks to bribe her family. Kat told him she had a couch that folded out, and David said he didn’t care if he slept on the floor as long as it was her floor.

At some point, her eyelids got heavy, the kind of heavy that comes from relief as much as exhaustion.

“Hey,” Kat said quietly, like he could hear her drifting.

“Yeah?”

“Before you fall asleep,” he said, “can I ask you something?”

Kat's mind, half asleep, reached for fear out of habit. “Sure.”

“Do you ever,” he began, then paused, and she could almost see him rubbing his forehead. “Do you ever do the thing where you imagine I’m there? Like, you’re doing laundry or whatever and your brain just — adds me?”

Kat's chest warmed. She’d done it a thousand times. She’d imagined him leaning in her doorway, teasing her for buying the wrong cereal. She’d imagined him sitting on her bed scrolling through movies while she pretended not to watch him.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “All the time.”

David let out a breath that sounded like relief. “Me too.”

Kat smiled into her pillow. “That’s kind of unhinged.”

“Love is unhinged,” David said. “That’s the whole brand.”

Kat's phone grew warm in her hand. She listened to the small domestic noises on his end — a cabinet closing, a distant faucet. She pictured him in his own night-not-night, on the other side of the world, holding his device like it was also an altar.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“For not making me feel stupid for wanting this,” she said. Her voice was soft, sleepy, and painfully sincere.

David didn’t joke this time. “You’re not stupid,” he said. “You’re brave. We both are. The universe made it harder, and we said… okay.”

Kat felt something settle inside her, like a knot loosening. The long-distance silence hadn’t vanished. It was still there, lurking in the hours when one of them slept and the other lived. But now it had a shape to it — an ending. A bridge with a date on it.

“August,” she said again, like a spell.

“August,” David replied.

Kat wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie and let herself stop trying to be composed about it. She was tired of being tough for no reason.

She stayed on the phone until her eyelids grew heavy, the kind of heavy that came from relief as much as exhaustion. When they finally said goodnight, the quiet that followed didn’t feel like punishment. It felt earned.

Kat let her eyes close fully. The room hummed. The radiator hissed. Somewhere below, the laundromat machines churned and turned, patient and relentless, turning dirty things clean by sheer stubborn motion — again and again, whether anyone was watching or not.