Night settles in slowly, like it's unsure whether it's welcome.
The rain outside hasn't stopped, but it has softened—turned into a steady tapping against the window, patient and persistent. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, phone resting near my chest, screen dark now.
But my mind isn't.
The message keeps replaying itself.
Someone who noticed you when no one else did.
I've read those words more times than I want to admit. There's nothing dramatic about them. No promises. No explanations. Yet they feel heavier than anything said loudly.
I don't reply again. Not yet.
I turn to my side and close my eyes, hoping sleep will do what it usually does—pull me away. It doesn't. Instead, it brings back things I never invite.
I remember a name.
Not clearly.
Just the sound of it.
Back in school, names were shouted, twisted, shortened, turned into weapons. Mine rarely survived intact. But there was one voice that said it properly. Once. Maybe twice.
I don't remember the face clearly. Just a presence. Someone who sat two rows behind me. Someone who didn't laugh when others did. Someone who looked away when things got ugly—not because they didn't care, but because looking too long hurt.
That memory sits quietly with me now.
My phone vibrates again.
I open my eyes immediately this time.
"Did I scare you?"
The words feel careful. Almost hesitant.
I type, then erase. Type again. Erase again. My fingers feel clumsy, like they're not used to honesty.
Finally, I send:
"I don't talk much."
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
"I remember."
That's all.
No questions. No pressure.
I breathe out slowly.
Sleep comes late and uneven. When it does, it's shallow. I dream of long corridors and locked doors, of voices calling my name incorrectly. I wake before the alarm, heart racing for no clear reason.
Morning light looks dull today.
I sit up and stretch, my back aching slightly. My phone is still there. No new messages. For some reason, that both relieves and disappoints me.
I get ready without thinking too much. Same routine. Same shirt I trust. Same pace. But something feels off—as if a small part of me is alert in a new way.
At breakfast, I barely eat. Outside, the city moves on, unaware that something inside me shifted last night.
At work, I try to focus.
I really do.
But my mind keeps wandering back—back to the hostel, back to the classroom, back to the idea that someone saw me when I thought I was invisible.
During a meeting, my manager asks a question. I answer it. My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Someone nods. Someone writes something down.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
At lunch, I don't scroll my phone immediately. I sit there, watching people talk, laugh, complain. Their words overlap, fill the space easily. I wonder how it feels to speak without measuring every sentence first.
My phone buzzes.
This time, I don't hesitate.
"I wasn't trying to scare you," the message says.
"I just didn't know how else to start."
I think for a long moment before replying.
"Why now?"
The response takes longer than before.
"Because I saw your name online yesterday. And I realized I never asked if you were okay."
I stare at the screen.
Years.
It's been years.
And yet, here we are.
The afternoon drags. Every small task feels heavier, like my body is doing one thing while my mind is somewhere else. I make mistakes I normally wouldn't. I correct them quietly.
On the way home, I walk instead of taking the bus. The air is humid, the road damp from last night's rain. I pass by a school. Children are pouring out, bags bouncing against their backs, voices loud and careless.
One boy stumbles and almost falls. Another grabs his arm and steadies him. They laugh and move on.
My chest tightens.
I keep walking.
Back in my room, I sit by the window and finally type the question that's been sitting inside me all day.
"How did you recognize me?"
The reply comes faster this time.
"You always sat near the window. You never fought back. But you never complained either."
I close my eyes.
That wasn't strength.
That was survival.
I type slowly.
"I don't remember much."
"I remember enough for both of us," comes the reply.
I don't know why that line hits me the way it does. Maybe because it sounds like something I needed to hear a long time ago.
As night falls again, we talk in fragments. Not a conversation exactly. More like two people testing the ground between them.
They don't ask me to explain anything.
They don't push.
They tell me small things instead.
About leaving town.
About regretting not speaking up.
About noticing bruises and pretending not to, because they were scared too.
That honesty sits heavy but warm in my chest.
At one point, they ask, "Do you hate that place?"
I think about the hostel. The rooms. The rules. The silence.
"I don't know," I reply.
"Some days I hate it. Some days I think it made me."
"Both can be true," they say.
I nod, even though they can't see me.
Later, when the conversation pauses naturally, I put my phone down and lie back. The ceiling looks the same as it always does. But I don't feel as alone staring at it tonight.
Memories come, but they don't attack. They just sit there.
I remember a night in the hostel when I couldn't sleep. Everyone else was snoring. I sat up quietly, knees pulled to my chest, counting my breaths. I remember thinking, If I stay quiet enough, maybe the world will forget me.
It didn't.
And maybe that's okay.
Before sleeping, I check my phone one last time.
A final message waits.
"You don't have to reply every time. I just wanted you to know—you weren't invisible."
My fingers hover.
Then I type:
"Thank you."
Just that.
Simple. Honest. Enough.
Sleep comes easier tonight.
Not deep.
But kinder.
The next morning, I wake up before the alarm again. But this time, my chest doesn't feel tight. I sit up, stretch, and breathe in slowly.
Outside, the sky is clear.
I make tea and stand by the window, watching the city wake up. There's noise, of course. There's always noise. But inside me, something feels balanced. Not healed. Not fixed.
Just… acknowledged.
At work, I speak up once more than usual. Not much. Just enough. No one reacts strangely. The world doesn't collapse. No one laughs.
During lunch, I catch myself smiling at something small—a silly message in a group chat, a joke I normally would've ignored.
It surprises me.
In the evening, as I walk back, I pass the same school. This time, the gate is closed. Quiet. Empty. I stop for a moment, then continue walking.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed and think about how strange life is. How the past doesn't always knock loudly. Sometimes it sends a message and waits.
I don't know where this connection will lead.
I don't know if it will last.
I don't even know if I'm ready for it.
But for the first time in a long while,
the silence between my heartbeats doesn't feel like a hiding place.
It feels like space.
Space to breathe.
Space to remember.
Space to choose differently.
I pick up my phone again.
This time, I don't wait for it to vibrate.
End of Chapter 3