Purity Osinachi had always believed that words were safer than people.
People looked at you and expected things—smiles, answers, confidence, explanations. Words, on the other hand, waited patiently. They didn't rush you. They didn't judge the pauses between your thoughts. They simply existed, quiet and understanding, ready whenever you were.
That was why Purity spent most of her free time reading.
Not because she didn't like people—she did, in her own gentle way—but because books and stories never demanded that she be louder than she was. They didn't ask her to change the softness of her voice or the careful way she chose her words. In stories, she felt normal. Seen. Understood.
It was a Friday evening when the story found her.
Purity lay on her bed, school uniform replaced with an oversized T-shirt, her hair loosely tied back as the sun dipped beyond the window. The house was unusually quiet. Her parents were out. Her younger siblings were asleep. The world, for once, felt paused.
She scrolled aimlessly through her phone, moving from one app to another, not really looking for anything. Just passing time. Just existing.
Then she opened the student writing platform.
She wasn't sure why she did. She hadn't planned to. It was almost instinct, like her fingers remembered something her mind hadn't consciously chosen. The app loaded slowly, and she sighed, ready to close it again—until a title caught her eye.
"Some of Us Learn to Breathe in Silence."
Purity frowned slightly.
There was something about those words. Something quiet and heavy, like a confession whispered into the dark. She clicked on it before she could talk herself out of it.
The story wasn't long. Not compared to the novels she loved. But by the third paragraph, Purity's chest felt tight in a way she couldn't explain.
The writer spoke of classrooms that felt too loud, of friendships that never quite fit, of smiling because it was easier than explaining the sadness behind it. Of feeling invisible in rooms full of people. Of being surrounded, yet deeply alone.
Purity stopped scrolling.
Her thumb hovered over the screen as her eyes traced the lines again—slower this time. Careful. Like she was afraid the words might disappear if she rushed.
"Some people think silence means emptiness. But sometimes, silence is the only place our hearts feel safe."
Her breath caught.
She sat up on the bed.
That sentence—no, that feeling—it felt like someone had reached into her chest and written down everything she'd never been able to say out loud. The way she stayed quiet in class even when she knew the answers. The way she listened more than she spoke, because speaking felt risky. The way she carried thoughts too deep for casual conversation.
Purity pressed her phone lightly against her chest, as if grounding herself.
She didn't know who the writer was. Their username was unfamiliar. No profile picture. No personal bio. Just words.
Honest, aching words.
By the time she reached the end of the story, her eyes were burning.
Not from tears—not yet—but from recognition.
She had read hundreds of stories online. Some were good. Some were forgettable. But this one felt different. This one didn't feel written for an audience. It felt written because the writer had no other way to survive their thoughts.
She scrolled back to the top.
Read it again.
Then a third time.
Only when her breathing finally steadied did she notice the empty comment section below.
No reactions. No likes. No comments.
Just silence.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Purity hesitated.
Her fingers hovered over the comment box. She had never commented on a story before. Never felt brave enough. Words were safe when they belonged to others. When they were hers, they felt fragile. Exposed.
What if she said the wrong thing?
What if she ruined the meaning?
What if the writer didn't want to be seen?
She locked her phone and set it beside her, standing up abruptly as if distance could quiet the sudden storm in her chest.
She paced the room.
Sat back down.
Picked up the phone again.
Unlocked it.
Scrolled back to the story.
"This is stupid," she whispered to herself.
But it didn't feel stupid. It felt important.
The writer had bared something raw. Something real. And Purity knew—knew—what it felt like to speak into the void and hear nothing back.
Slowly, carefully, she typed.
I don't know who you are. But thank you for writing this. It felt like you understood parts of me I've never been able to explain.
She stared at the words.
Deleted them.
Typed again.
Your story made me feel less alone.
Pause.
She added one last line.
I hope you keep writing.
Her heart pounded as if she had just confessed something dangerous.
Before she could change her mind, Purity hit Post.
The comment appeared instantly beneath the story.
There it was. Her words. Public. Vulnerable.
She locked her phone again and dropped it onto the bed, covering her face with both hands.
"What did you just do?" she murmured.
Minutes passed.
Five. Ten.
She peeked at her phone.
Nothing.
Relief and disappointment tangled in her chest.
Of course, she told herself. Writers didn't usually reply. Especially anonymous ones. Especially ones who wrote like they were hiding.
She placed the phone face-down and lay back, staring at the ceiling as the evening deepened into night.
At school the next day, Purity moved through her usual routine.
She sat in her usual seat near the window. Copied notes quietly. Answered questions only when directly asked. Laughed softly at jokes she half-heard. She didn't notice the boy two rows behind her, head bent over his notebook, scribbling words that had nothing to do with the lesson.
She didn't notice the way his phone buzzed in his pocket.
She didn't see the way his eyes widened when he read her comment.
That night, as Purity prepared for bed, her phone vibrated.
Once.
She frowned, picking it up.
A notification from the writing platform.
Her breath stilled as she opened it.
You have a reply.
Her fingers trembled as she tapped the screen.
I didn't think anyone would understand it like this, the message read.
Thank you for seeing me.
Purity smiled—softly, quietly—like a secret shared between strangers.
She typed back.
And just like that, a story that began in silence found its reader.
And the reader, unknowingly, found the writer.