Chapter 6 — Echoes of the Past
Mara had a small ritual every night before replying to messages.
She brewed tea she never drank. She straightened pens she never used. She opened the window just enough to hear the city breathe, never enough to let it touch her.
It was safer that way.
But that night, she noticed something. Her hand trembled slightly as she read Milo's words:
Milo:
I feel like the walls in my room are closing in. I can't… I can't breathe.
The tremble wasn't fear. It was memory.
She remembered the orphanage nights when walls did close in. The nights she lay awake listening to older children screaming at each other, listening to the quiet ones being ignored. She remembered the weight of being invisible, and how it had taught her to survive by noticing.
Somewhere in that memory, a promise had taken root — a promise that no one else's voice would ever go unheard if she could help it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, and she typed carefully, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell:
R.:
Breathe slowly. Imagine the walls growing taller with every breath. You are not trapped.
She hit send and felt a hollow echo settle in her chest. She didn't know if her words would reach him or simply float in cyberspace, lost. But it was enough that she tried.
Milo read her reply and closed his eyes. He pictured his room expanding, the walls dissolving, and a strange warmth settling in his chest. He didn't know her. He didn't know what she looked like. And yet, for the first time in a long while, he felt safe enough to let himself relax.
He typed back quickly, almost trembling:
Milo:
How do you know these things?
Mara paused. That question could have been many things. Curiosity. Admiration. Or something far heavier — trust.
She thought of the nights she had spent alone, of the people who never returned her gaze. She thought of every child she had once been, small and trembling, wishing someone would notice her. And she typed, almost unconsciously:
R.:
Because I've been there.
She pressed send and froze. She had said too much.
Milo's reply came almost immediately:
Milo:
You've been… where I am?
Mara nodded, though he couldn't see her. Her own past wasn't something she shared lightly, but she sensed that he needed her presence more than explanations.
R.:
And I understand what it feels like to wait for someone who might never arrive.
Milo read her words and felt a strange tremor in his chest, a mix of relief and fear. He didn't know her, but in that moment, he trusted her more than anyone he had ever met.
Mara leaned back in her chair, looking at the ceiling, letting herself feel a small, forbidden warmth — the warmth of being needed.
The city outside roared and hummed, uncaring and alive. And inside her small apartment, two strangers shared a quiet connection, fragile and fierce at the same time.
For Mara, it was the beginning of something she hadn't allowed herself to name.
For Milo, it was the first time in a long time that hope didn't feel impossible.
And somewhere, in the silence between messages, they were no longer completely alone.