Raka started noticing a pattern.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no grand revelation, no "aha" moment that split the sky in two. Just small consistencies, repeated enough to feel like more than coincidence.
Every time they met in person, Nayla opened up a little more.
Not in ways most people would recognize there were no sweeping hugs or declarations. But in the quiet language she spoke so fluently: warmer smiles that held eye contact a second longer, softer goodbyes that hovered in the air like something left unsaid, small touches that weren't accidents. A hand brushing against his on the table. A shoulder leaning into his for half a breath too long.
She didn't say she liked being around him. She didn't need to.
She was around him. That was the statement.
And it did things to Raka's chest. Warmed it from the inside out like sunlight was being stored there for winter.
But then—
The switch.
As soon as she stepped behind the screen, she shrank again. Her messages turned brief, factual, and almost businesslike. Typing bubbles would come and go, as if she thought better of sending things. Her replies often arrived late and landed with a quiet thud, no punctuation, no softness. Like the warmth she'd shown him face-to-face got left behind in the space between screens.
And it messed with him.
He hated that it messed with him.
He didn't want to be that guy, the one staring at his phone like it owed him closure. The one rereading messages like a breakup was coded inside a full stop.
Today, it had been nearly ten hours since he'd sent:
"Hope you got home safe."
Silence.
His mind spiraled. Was he being too much? Did she regret their time together? Had he misread everything, the smiles, the laugh, the way she let her fingers linger near his?
Then, finally, the buzz.
"I did. Thanks."
That was it.
No emoji. No, "you too." No "same." Just the kind of message someone might send a coworker after a meeting.
He stared at the screen for a full minute. Trying not to read between the lines. Trying not to need anything.
And yet, strangely… he felt something shift.
Because maybe this wasn't the distance.
Maybe this was her being consistent.
This was Nayla. Carefully layered. Slowly unwrapped. Some people loved loudly gifs and voice notes, and long, rambling texts. Nayla loved it like rainfall on glass. Quiet. Gentle. Steady, if you were paying attention.
She showed up in ways that took effort. In remembering the exact way he took his coffee. In listening so closely, she caught when he was hiding stress behind a smile. In just saying "yes" when everything in her probably screamed to stay home.
So he let go of the ache a little. Let go of the imagined rejection. And replied:
"Cool. I enjoyed today. Hope you did too."
This time, her response came faster.
"I did. A lot."
Three words.
But they cracked open something warm.
The next day, without preamble, she sent a photo: the cover of a new book. No message. No caption.
Raka laughed softly to himself.
That was her way of saying: I'm thinking of you. I want to keep talking to you.That was her version of a love note.
And in her language, even silence felt like progress.Even stillness felt like hope.