"Dude, you're obsessed," Juno said, slurping spicy noodles like it was a sport.
They were perched on mismatched stools at their favorite campus food stall, a neon-lit corner that never bothered upgrading anything but the flavor. The air smelled like garlic oil, simmering broth, and charcoal. Someone's speaker buzzed with lo-fi beats through the chaos, mixing with the clang of chopsticks, bursts of laughter, and someone loudly arguing over missed quiz grades.
It was the comforting noise of youth of lives in motion.
Raka poked at his bowl, dragging a slice of fishcake through chili oil without really seeing it.
"I'm not obsessed," he mumbled.
"You bring her up every time we hang out," Juno shot back, though not unkindly. He wiped his mouth with a napkin that had already lost the battle against his sauce-covered fingers. "But she never texts first. Barely replies. You're always the one chasing."
Raka exhaled. Long. Controlled. "She's not like other people."
"Oh, she's definitely not," Juno muttered with a dry laugh. "But are you sure you're not just into the challenge?"
Raka didn't reply. Because that was the thing, wasn't it? That was the line everyone thought he was dancing on. That maybe he was just addicted to the chase, to the thrill of decoding Nayla like a complicated book written in a half-familiar language.
But they didn't see what he saw.
Nayla was quiet, yes. Sometimes even distant. Her texts were curt, her emojis non-existent. But when she was with him, really with him, it felt different. She noticed things no one else did. When he changed his shampoo. He was pretending to laugh a little too loudly after a rough day. She remembered the names of coworkers he didn't even remember mentioning.
She remembered him.
"She's not a challenge," Raka said finally, stirring the broth. "She's just someone who doesn't give herself easily. And that's okay."
Juno raised an eyebrow. "You sure she's giving anything at all?"
Raka didn't answer.
Because that question scared him more than he'd admit.
That night, after the world had quieted and his dorm room was bathed in the blue glow of his phone screen, Raka sat cross-legged on his bed, thumbs hovering above the keyboard.
Juno's words echoed, heavier than he expected. Not loud, but persistent. A seed of doubt.
He scrolled through their chat. His texts, long or funny or sometimes just links to things that reminded him of her. Her replies always read, always short.
But never anything.
He typed slowly.
"Are you still okay seeing me this weekend?"
Message sent. The bubble turned grey. Then blue. Read.
No reply.
The silence stretched, slow and sharp.
He set his phone down, staring at the ceiling. Was this him being loyal—or just foolish?
Minutes passed.
Then the screen lit up.
"Yes."
Just that.
Short. Typical.
But enough.
Raka smiled, just a little. He didn't need paragraphs. He didn't need warm words wrapped in hearts or laughter typed in caps.
He just needed her to keep choosing him.
Even if her yes was whispered, not shouted.
Because in her world, that single word meant something. It meant yes, I'm showing up.Yes, you matter.
And that was all he ever really wanted.