Raka noticed it first in the way Nayla held her phone a little too long after reading his messages.
He'd seen it in person how her eyes would scan the screen twice, maybe three times, before her thumbs twitched over the keyboard. Then pause. Hover. Sometimes she'd start typing, only to backspace it all away. The screen would go dark in her hands while her mind wrestled with invisible questions: Was that too much? Not enough? Should I even say this at all?
When they were apart, he'd watch the "typing…" bubble appear and vanish like a breath being held and released. Then nothing. Then back again.
Most people he knew chatted in bursts of quick emojis, rapid-fire reactions, endless streams of gifs, and abbreviations. But Nayla wasn't like most people. She was deliberate. Thoughtful. Quiet, even in the noise of chat.
She didn't say much, but what she did say, she meant.
And maybe that's why he kept waiting. Because with her, even silence felt like it was holding something sacred.
He didn't expect her to mirror him. Raka was open, maybe too much sometimes. He led with his heart, typed without filter, laughed through voice notes, and made playlists she never commented on but always seemed to listen to. He didn't mind her stillness. Her careful replies. It was her language, slower, softer.
He was learning it.
Then one evening, while the city outside his window was all golden haze and long shadows, a message pinged through. He expected a text.
But it was a photo.
No caption. No explanation. Just the sky through what looked like her bedroom window, hazy pink clouds melting into a sleepy blue. It looked like a painting caught off guard.
His heart stuttered.
He stared at it for a while before typing just one word:
"Beautiful."
It wasn't clever or romantic. But it was true.
A full minute passed. Then another photo came through. A different angle, more intimate. Her hand curled gently around a ceramic mug. The cup looked soft in color, like ivory dipped in warmth. But what stopped him was her fingers, slender, slightly curled, relaxed.
He stared at it for too long.
This wasn't small talk. This was her, speaking in her way. Letting him in, one layer at a time. These weren't just pictures, they were moments. The kind people keep for themselves. Unless they trust you.
He wanted to say something beautiful. Something that would tell her I see you. That she didn't need to be louder or faster or more anything.
He typed:"That mug looks cozy. Just like you."
Then came the waiting.
Ten minutes.Twenty.An hour.
He almost locked his phone, thinking maybe he'd misread the moment. Maybe it was too much, too soon.
But then, her reply came.
"It's my favorite."
Just that. Three words. No emoji. No fluff.
And somehow, it was everything.
It meant: I chose this photo.It meant: I wanted you to see this.It meant: You saw me right, and I don't mind.
And to Raka, that was more than enough.