It had been nearly two months since their first conversation.
In that time, they'd built a strange little bubble — a world where they could talk about anything, as long as it wasn't too personal.
No names.
No locations.
No photos.
But that night, MoonInk broke the silence first.
MoonInk:I think we need to add something new to our rules.
IronQuill:Oh? Like what?
MoonInk:Maybe… we can share one personal detail. Just one.
He stared at the blinking cursor. They had been so careful about this. Anonymity was their safety net.
IronQuill:What kind of detail?
MoonInk:Not too big. Just… something small, but real.
After a few seconds, she sent hers.
MoonInk:I have a tiny scar on my left wrist. Got it while trying to cut open a stubborn packet of biscuits when I was 10.
He laughed, but also pictured it — not the scar itself, but the little moment of clumsiness that must have caused it.
IronQuill:Alright, my turn. I have this old steel cup that I've used for tea since I was a kid. It's dented in two places, but I can't drink tea from anything else. Feels wrong.
MoonInk:That's oddly specific.
IronQuill:You said real detail. That's as real as it gets.
The conversation moved on, but the air between them felt different now. That single exchange — a small scar, a dented cup — was the first crack in the wall they'd built around themselves.
Later that night, as she was about to log off, she sent one more message.
MoonInk:Hey, IronQuill?
IronQuill:Yeah?
MoonInk:I think… I'd recognise that cup if I ever saw it.
He didn't reply right away, but when he did, it was just one line.
IronQuill:And I'd recognise that scar.
They went offline after that, but both stayed awake longer than they'd admit, their minds quietly rewiring what "anonymous" meant.