Inaya.
Something's shifted.
I can feel it.
And no — I'm not being dramatic. (Okay, maybe just a bit.)
But it's in his tone.
His last few letters? Shorter. Colder. Polite, like we're strangers who forgot we were ever anything else.
"Hope you're doing okay."
"Things have been busy."
"Take care."
Take care.
That's what you say when you're building the softest exit out of someone's life.
And maybe it's stupid. Maybe I'm reading into it.
But when someone starts putting full stops at the ends of their sentences when they never did before — I notice.
And now?
Now I'm spiraling.
Quietly.
Which is the worst kind of spiral.
Kavya was scrolling through Pinterest beside me like the world wasn't crumbling in soft, lowercase heartbreak.
"He hasn't replied?" she asked, not even looking up.
"He has. Just… not like before."
"You're in love with a stranger you've never met and now he's texting like a corporate email. Girl, this was always going to be messy."
"He's not a stranger," I say quickly. Too quickly.
She looked at me. A brow raised.
"Right. Because you know his favorite song, his star sign, and his tragic backstory."
"Shut up," I mumbled, sipping my tea like it could numb the ache.
But she was right.
She was always right.
It was always going to be messy.
I used to wait for his letters like they were oxygen.
Now I reread the old ones, wondering when things started slipping between the lines.
I want to ask:
"Are you still here? Or am I just writing to the ghost of what we were?"
But I don't.
Instead, I write:
Subject: Just Wondering
Dear RT,
I hope you're okay.
You haven't said much lately, and maybe I'm being weird about it. Maybe you're just busy. Or tired. Or sick of me.
(Please don't let it be the last one.)
I just… miss how your letters used to feel.
They used to be like warm tea and poetry and holding my breath all at once.
Now they feel like "seen at 2:14 PM."
Maybe I'm reading too much into it. I do that. All the time.
But just in case you're drifting — can you let me know before you disappear?
I can handle the distance.
I just don't do well with silence.
Still yours,
— IM
I hit the send button.
And then panicked.
Regretting.
But it's out now.
And I can't unread my honesty.
It's been days.
And I still think about him.
The boy I bumped into in the hallway.
Not like romantically.
(Okay. Maybe romantically. Shut up.)
But in the way you remember a moment even when it doesn't last long enough to be called anything at all.
He wasn't spectacular-looking in a movie-star way.
But something about him felt... cinematic.
Like a sad song you only hear once but still hum a week later.
His eyes were the kind that look like they've seen too much and said too little.
His voice? Low. Careful. Like it didn't want to disturb the universe.
And his hands — they were cold when they brushed mine, but not in a way that made me pull away.
In a way that made me feel... awake.
We didn't exchange names.
Didn't even talk for longer than thirty seconds.
But when he asked if I was okay, I almost told him about my insomnia.
If it had been someone else I'd say,
"I'm fine."
Lies. Obviously.
Kavya called him "Academic Mystery Boy" and told me to let it go.
Arnav said he probably wears turtlenecks unironically and listens to Arctic Monkeys in the shower.
Which, frankly, is my type.
But I can't let it go.
Because there was something in his eyes that reminded me of RT.
Not in a face way. In a feeling way.
Like he carried silence like a second skin too.
And now I can't stop wondering:
What if that was him?
What if I already met the boy I've been writing to…
and didn't even know it?
I still don't know his name.
But I remember the way he looked at me — like he almost recognized something.
And maybe I did too.
Rabin.I read her message twice.
Then a third time.
The words didn't change.
But they kept hitting differently.
"If you're drifting — can you let me know before you disappear?"
God.
She thinks I'm leaving.
She thinks I'm doing it on purpose.
And the worst part?
I can't blame her.
Because I've been so afraid of her seeing me for real, I started hiding before she even asked for more.
I put my phone down and leaned back against the wall of my dorm room.
The city outside was loud.
But inside, it was just… me.
And her words.
Burning in my head like a letter I never deserved to receive.
You've become part of the way I breathe now.
How the hell do I reply to that without making it worse?
How do I explain that I've spent days overthinking every sentence I send her —
scared that the more she knows,
the more she'll realize I'm just a shadow dressed in polite grammar?
"You're brooding again," Hideya said from across the room, his head buried in a bag of Hot Cheetos.
"You read something, didn't you?"
"Mhm."
"IM?"
I didn't answer. He already knew.
I thought I could handle this.
The distance. The anonymity. The slow-burn friendship disguised as correspondence.
But then I met that girl in the hallway.
The one who dropped her books and said "tragically, yes" like a punchline and a confession in one sentence.
And now I can't stop wondering.
What if it was her?
What if the reason she feels distant in her letters… is because we already crossed paths —
and neither of us knew?
What if we were real for a second… and we missed it?
Subject: I'm Still Here
IM —
You said I feel distant.
And maybe I am.
Not because I want to be.
But because I'm scared.
You make me feel seen in ways I didn't think I deserved.
And that's not easy to explain — not even to myself.
I don't want to disappear.
But I'm not used to being… real with people.
I'm trying.
I hope you can feel that.
Still here.
Still reading.
— RT
But I don't send it.
I rewrite it.
Cut it down.
Clean it up.
Because messy truths are hard to say out loud.
"Hope you're okay too. I'm still here. Sorry if I've been quiet."
That's what he sends.
And then he lies awake all night, wondering if it's already too late.
Inaya.11:50 pm
Subject: Just… Read This, Please
Dear RT,
This might be the worst idea I've ever had.
And trust me, I've had a LOT of them. Like eating street momos during monsoon season bad. Like trusting Buzzfeed quizzes to determine my soulmate bad.
But I can't do this anymore.
The guessing. The distance. The almosts.
You feel like something real in a world that never is.
And I'm tired of hiding behind metaphors.
So here it is.
My name is Inaya Mehta.
I'm 19. Indian.
Currently surviving NYU with too many books and not enough serotonin.
I like chai, sad poetry, the smell of old bookstores, and the color maroon.
I cry at dumb things. I laugh too loudly. I feel too much.
And I think…
No. I know that writing to you has changed something in me.
So if this ruins everything—
If this makes you disappear—
Just know:
I'm still glad I met you.
Even if it was just through words.
Still annoyingly yours,
— Inaya
I hover over the send button.
Heart hammering.
Stomach folding into itself.
"Just do it," I whispered.
I clicked.
[SENT – 11:59 PM]
Rabin.11:50 pm
Subject: I Think It's Time
Dear IM,
I don't know how to begin, so I'll just… begin.
I've been terrified of this.
Because writing to you has been the safest thing I've done in a long time.
But it's also the most real.
I kept thinking:
"What if she finds out who I am and stops writing?"
"What if the version of me in her head is better than the one that exists?"
But tonight?
I realized I'd rather risk losing you…
than keep pretending you don't already own pieces of me.
So.
My name is Rabin Takahashi.
I'm 19. Japanese.
Also at NYU. Architecture student. Sad playlist enthusiast. Tall. Probably wears turtlenecks. Lover of silence — and lately, of letters that smell like chai and longing.
I don't know if we've passed each other on campus.
I don't know if fate is laughing or plotting.
But I do know this:
You're not too much.
You've never been too much.
And if this changes everything—
Then maybe it's time everything changed.
Still hauntingly yours,
— Rabin
I stare at the blinking cursor.
Feel like my heart might short-circuit.
And then?
I hit send.
[SENT – 11:59 PM]
12:00 am
Inbox (1 New Message)
Both of them.
Staring.
Breath caught.
Eyes wide.
And in that moment, they realize:
They weren't just writing letters anymore.
They were writing to each other.
Really.
Finally.
Completely.
Little did they know, It wasn't a coincidence. It was a beginning in disguise.