It was past midnight, and the city outside Nayla's window had quieted into a soft, sleepy blur lights blinking across distant apartment buildings, the occasional honk from a far-off taxi, the whisper of night settling in.
Inside, her room was dim. A single desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over her notebook. Not her laptop, not her phone, just an old spiral-bound journal with a half-torn sticker on the cover. The one she used when her thoughts became too heavy to type.
She flipped to a blank page. Picked up her pen. Paused.
Then she began to write.
Dear Raka,
I don't know if I'll ever let you read this. But I need to write it anyway.
I'm not used to people staying. I'm not used to someone noticing the quiet parts of me and not asking me to be louder. I thought love had to be grand and obvious. You taught me it can also be patient. Subtle. Safe.
There are things I've wanted to say. Like how I feel calmer when I'm near you. I notice the way your voice changes when you're trying to be gentle. How your presence doesn't demand anything, and somehow that makes me want to give everything.
I think I'm falling for you. Slowly, clumsily, quietly.
I'm scared. But for once, I'm more afraid of not saying it than of saying too much.
Maybe one day I'll read this to you. Maybe not. But I needed to put it somewhere other than my chest.
– N
She set the pen down. The air in the room felt still, like the words had taken something with them when they spilled onto the page.
Nayla read the letter twice.
Her hand hovered over the idea of tearing it out, sealing it in an envelope, or even taking a picture and sending it. But in the end, she just closed the notebook and placed it gently in the drawer beside her bed.
The truth was there. That was enough for now.
She reached for her phone out of habit, checking if Raka had messaged. Nothing new. He'd said goodnight two hours ago with a simple:
"Sleep well, Nay."
Short. Sweet. Comforting.
She smiled at the screen.
Then, almost without thinking, she whispered into the quiet, "Thank you… for not giving up on me."
The room didn't reply. But she imagined if he were there, sitting on the edge of her bed, he wouldn't have said anything either.
He would've just nodded, smiled, and stayed.
Because sometimes love wasn't about dramatic confessions or perfect timing. Sometimes it was the act of showing up, day after day, quietly holding space for someone else's healing.
And tonight, even though he didn't hear it…
Maybe he already knew.