Raka noticed it first in the way Nayla held her phone a little too long after reading his messages. Her thumbs would hover just above the keyboard—uncertain, undecided. The "typing…" bubble would appear, then vanish. Appear again. Disappear again.
He'd stare at his screen, watching it happen in real time. Like she was fighting a battle in silence, unsure what could or should be said. Most people talked fast through chat short replies, emojis, instant reactions. But Nayla… she was slow. Careful. She weighed her words like they meant something.
And maybe that was why he kept waiting.
He didn't expect a paragraph. He didn't even expect warmth. But somewhere between her pauses and the messages she didn't send, he began to hear her. A different language. A quieter one.
Then, one evening, out of nowhere, she sent a photo.
It wasn't a selfie. Not a quote. Not even something directed at him. Just the sky outside her window, hazy pink clouds melting into a soft blue horizon. There was no caption, no explanation. Just that one frame.
His heart tightened.
"Beautiful," he replied. Nothing more.
A full minute passed before another photo appeared. This time, it was her hand wrapped around a coffee mug. The ceramic looked warm in her grip, her fingers delicate and real, almost close enough to touch.
He stared at it for a long time.
This wasn't just small talk. This was her letting him in, slowly, carefully, without words. Trust shared in fragments.
He wanted to say something profound. Something she'd remember.
Instead, he typed: That mug looks cozy. Just like you.
No reply. Not for ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.
Just when he was about to lock his phone and call it a night, her message arrived.
It's my favorite.
And somehow, those three words said everything he had hoped to hear.