Ayana clicked the post.
She didn't breathe as the screen loaded. She wasn't sure why. Maybe because the title felt like it had been written just for her. Maybe because in her small, quiet world, where everything moved in repetition and silence, this felt like something new—something alive.
The post was short. Honest. Vulnerable. It didn't shout. It didn't try to impress. It simply… spoke.
Spoke to her.
She read every line twice. And then a third time.
> "I hope you know you're not alone."
That line. It broke something and fixed something in her, all at once.
She placed her phone on the desk and looked up at the ceiling fan, spinning slowly, humming like a lullaby. The same ceiling she'd stared at for years. But tonight, it felt different.
Someone out there had written something real. For her. To her.
Even if he didn't know her name.
She whispered, "I wish I knew yours."
For the first time since she discovered his stories, Ayana went to the profile page—not just to read, but to look.
The author's username was simple: @NocturnePages.
There was no profile picture. No bio. Just a number: Stories: 7. Followers: 41. Following: 0.
She wondered what kind of person would write so much but follow no one.
She scrolled past the list of stories, all with moody titles like The House with No Windows, How to Love a Ghost, Midnight Doesn't End at Twelve.
She clicked on the most recent one—the personal post.
And she left a reply.
> "You said you hope I feel less invisible. I do.
Words don't usually stay with me. Yours did.
Thank you, @NocturnePages. Whoever you are."
She hesitated.
Then added:
> "- Someone Who's Still Holding On"
---
Back in Balikpapan, Dimas was brushing his teeth when the notification popped up.
He almost ignored it. But his glance caught the words: New Comment on Your Post.
He leaned closer. Read the lines once. Then again.
He dropped onto his bed, toothpaste still foaming in his mouth, phone in hand.
He didn't recognize the user—there was no account, no profile. Another anonymous.
But the tone. The phrasing. The way the words felt like warm breath on a windowpane—it was her.
He was sure of it.
His heart thumped. It was a strange feeling—like making eye contact with someone across a crowded street, both of you unsure who waved first.
Dimas rinsed his mouth, wiped his face, and came back to his desk. His laptop was already glowing.
He opened a draft. Not for a new story. But a private one. A message.
---
> *"Hi.
You don't have to reply again. I just wanted to say this:
You remind me why I write.
Not for stats. Not for likes.
But for moments like this.
For readers like you."*
He paused.
Then added:
> "If you ever want to talk—not just as reader and writer, but as people—I'm here."
---
Ayana read the message an hour later.
She didn't expect it. Didn't even know the platform allowed private replies. But there it was, blinking in the 'Messages' tab she had never opened before.
> "If you ever want to talk—not just as reader and writer, but as people—I'm here."
People.
She reread the word. Let it soak in.
People. Not profiles. Not usernames. Not pages or pseudonyms.
Just people.
She didn't know what she was doing, but her fingers began to type.
---
> "Hi.
I don't know your name. I don't know where you are. But I feel like I've known your words longer than some people I see every day.
So maybe… yes.
Maybe I'd like to talk.
Just as people."
---
They didn't exchange real names. Not yet.
But from that moment, a private message thread was born.
Every night, one of them would write. Sometimes two lines, sometimes ten. They didn't talk about themselves, not directly. They talked about ideas, books, sentences that made their hearts ache, about loneliness, and the weird comfort of knowing that someone out there was listening.
It was anonymous, yes—but never cold. There was warmth. Curiosity. Kindness.
For Dimas, it felt like a conversation with someone who saw through the blur of his normal life—the classmates who thought he was just "the quiet one," the teachers who said he was "smart but distracted."
For Ayana, it was like standing in front of a mirror that didn't judge, that didn't expect anything from her but presence. Just being.
---
One night, Ayana wrote:
> "Do you ever feel like you exist more online than in real life?"
Dimas replied:
> "Yes.
In real life, I'm quiet. Invisible, maybe.
But here, through words, I feel like I finally have a voice."
---
A few days later, he asked her:
> "If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?"
Ayana typed slowly, then hit send:
> "Somewhere with no expectations. Just quiet. And books. And someone who gets it."
He answered:
> "Sounds a lot like here."
And it did.
---
Neither of them noticed how fast time moved in those messages.
One week became two.
They still didn't know names, or faces, or where the other was from. But the tone of their words—their rhythm, their questions, their silences—became familiar.
Like music you hum even when it's not playing.
Dimas didn't tell his friends. Ayana didn't tell her cousin or her classmates.
It felt too delicate. Too precious.
Like a spark between two ships on a dark ocean, blinking lights in Morse code—saying: I see you. I see you too.
---
One night, Ayana stared at her ceiling again. Same spinning fan. Same hum.
But tonight, something shifted.
She opened their message thread.
> "I don't know why, but… I think I want to know your name."
She sent it before she could overthink.
Seconds later, the three dots appeared. Typing.
> "You first :)"
---
Ayana smiled.
Somehow, she knew this was the beginning of something irreversible.
A name was just a word. But giving it to someone—it meant trust.
And maybe, just maybe, she was ready for that.