It started with a typo. One tiny, stupid typo.
Jenna had meant to text her best friend, Priya. She was stuck in a meeting at work, bored out of her mind, and needed to vent before she exploded. Her fingers flew across the screen as she half-listened to her boss ramble on about “synergy.”
“If I have to hear Mark say the word ‘pivot’ one more time I’m going to jump out this window. Save me. Please.”
She hit Send without checking.
The message went out. Two seconds later, she realized she’d sent it to someone named Marcus D., not Priya. She blinked. Her heart skipped a beat.
Who the hell was Marcus D.?
She tapped the name. It was just a number. No saved contact photo, no memory of who this person was. The profile picture was blank. Could be a random, or worse—someone she met once and forgot.
She waited, panicking quietly. Maybe they’d ignore it. Maybe they’d block her. Or report her.
Then came the reply.
Marcus D.:
“Well, I’m Mark. And I just said ‘pivot’ again in a different meeting. Should I be worried?”
Jenna froze.
Her eyes widened.
Her hands went cold.
Oh.
No.
She’d sent it to Mark Douglas—the regional director. The guy above her boss. The guy who literally introduced himself to the company with a PowerPoint slide titled “Let’s Pivot Together.”
She broke out into a cold sweat.
Frantic, she typed:
“I’M SO SORRY. That message wasn’t meant for you. I didn’t mean any offense. Please ignore it. I respect you and your leadership and the word ‘pivot.’ Immensely.”
She considered throwing her phone in the trash.
Then, another reply.
Marcus D.:
“Relax. You’re not wrong. I’ve overused that word so much my own wife groans when she hears it now.”
“Honestly? That message made my day. It’s nice to know someone’s paying attention—even if they’re suffering while doing it.”
Jenna stared at the screen, unsure if she’d just gotten lucky or if this was some kind of HR trap.
“Okay. Still incredibly sorry. I swear I’m usually very professional.”
Marcus D.:
“You don’t sound unprofessional. You sound honest. Which is refreshing.”
They didn’t talk again that day.
But a week later, Jenna received another message from the same number.
Marcus D.:
“Sitting in another long meeting. The phrase ‘low-hanging fruit’ just made three people nod solemnly. Help.”
Jenna grinned.
She replied instantly.
“You want help? Try throwing in ‘boil the ocean’ and see if anyone notices.”
That opened the floodgates. Soon they were swapping inside jokes about corporate lingo and workplace absurdities. He never pulled rank, never reminded her that he was, technically, a senior exec. With him, she felt… relaxed. Real.
They never discussed job titles. Just bad coffee, Monday morning trauma, and the secret war of surviving in a cubicle jungle.
Then, one day, he texted:
Marcus D.:
“Off to New York next week for a conference. Want to grab a drink before I go?”
Jenna paused.
This felt different.
Personal.
Flirty?
Her stomach flipped.
She shouldn’t. Should she?
But her thumbs typed without permission.
“Sure. Name the place.”
They met at a wine bar downtown. Casual but nice. She wore a navy dress and the good earrings. He wore a button-down, sleeves rolled, and a sheepish smile.
“Before you ask,” he said, “I promise not to say ‘pivot’ all night.”
“Thank God,” Jenna laughed. “I would’ve walked out.”
Over wine and tapas, they talked about everything but work. He told her about his failed first marriage, his love of jazz, how he hated being treated like a robot in a suit.
She told him about her dream of writing a novel, how she sometimes felt like a ghost in the office, how she wanted more from life than deadlines and email threads.
It wasn’t a date. But it wasn’t not a date either.
When they said goodbye, he hugged her. Tight. Warm. Familiar.
For weeks after, they kept texting. Every day.
Some days, it was just memes. Some days, it was long conversations about fears, dreams, and regrets. She learned that he hated flying, that he collected old coins, that he used to be a drummer in a college band called “The Pivot Points” (yes, really).
She didn’t tell anyone. Not Priya. Not her team. She wasn’t even sure what it was yet.
Then one Friday, he texted:
Marcus D.:
“Still think about that message you sent me by accident. It felt like fate.”
Jenna’s heart stuttered.
“I think about it too,” she replied.
Marcus D.:
“I’m not your boss. You’re not mine. Would it be crazy if I said I want to take you out for real? No meetings. No work talk. Just you and me.”
Her thumb hovered again.
She thought about office gossip. About rumors. About risk.
Then she smiled.
“Yes.”
Two years later, Jenna stood in the kitchen of their shared apartment, helping Mark set the table.
On the wall hung a framed phone screenshot. The first message.
“If I have to hear Mark say the word ‘pivot’ one more time, I’m going to jump out this window.”
Below it, a sticky note in his handwriting:
“Best wrong number ever.”
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