The first time Raka saw Nayla in the group chat, her presence dropped in like a digital cold front.
Everyone was joking about their latest book club pick, throwing memes, sarcastic quips, and outrageous takes about the ending, when Nayla suddenly typed her first message.
"That character was inconsistent."
No emoji. No elaboration. Just a cold literary diagnosis.
The chat went awkwardly quiet for a second. A few people tossed in "lol"s to lighten the mood. Others ignored her completely and went back to trading jokes about plot holes and cringe romance arcs. But Raka noticed.
He typed back, casually:
"Right? It's like the author changed direction halfway through writing her."
No one else reacted. Nayla didn't either.
Not right away.
Two days later, out of nowhere, she DM'd him.
No "hi." No context.
Just a book title and author.
"Try this instead."
He did.
And when he finished it three nights later bleary-eyed, heart-sore, and wrecked in that delicious way only a great book can ruin you he realized something:
The protagonist reminded him of her.
Quiet. Misunderstood. Blunt, but deeply perceptive. Every word is meaningful. No performance. No show.
He texted:
"That book broke me in the best way. Thanks."
She replied an hour later:
"That's why I sent it."
It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't even an overture.
But it was… something.
That was how it started.
Tiny, quiet threads.
A shared reading list turned into occasional messages. Messages turned into recommendations. Recommendations turned into thoughts about characters and life, and things she never said out loud in the group.
They never acknowledged it, but soon, their chat became its own space, far away from the noise of memes and hot takes.
But in the group?
People still talked.
"She's cold," someone typed once, after Nayla shut down a ridiculous theory with three surgical sentences.
"She's real," Raka wanted to reply.
But he didn't.
Not because he agreed. But because he knew she wouldn't want to be defended. That was the thing about Nayla, she wasn't trying to be liked. She wasn't curating an online persona or smoothing edges for strangers.
Online, she was sharp. Unapologetically blunt. Her words cut through fluff like glass.
But offline?
Offline, she was different.
Soft-spoken. Intentional. Observant in a way that made you feel seen, even when she said nothing.
She brought extra napkins if she noticed you spilling. Remembered which scenes you liked from old films. She never asked "how are you?" She asked if you'd been sleeping okay, or if the rain made you feel strange too.
And Raka wasn't sure which version of her was more real.
Maybe both were.
Maybe Nayla was one of those rare people who didn't split herself in half for anyone. She just showed up, fully as she was, whether the world understood her or not.
And he?
He was slowly becoming the place where she let herself be understood.
Quietly. Completely. Without apology.