Inaya.The next morning, I checked my inbox before I even brushed my teeth — hoping RT had written back. He did.His letter, which I'd been waiting for all night. I read it and then re-read it and then again. It was like a loop, I loved being stuck in it. He always sounds so calm. So sure. But who even is he? For all I know, he's writing these letters from the back of a Starbucks with a completely different personality in real life. Why does this feel so real? Why does it matter if it's not? Y'all aren't getting it! It's scary, very scary! What if he isn't even real? What if he's just pretending to get me and secretly judging every letter I write?
But wait! Why do I keep thinking about him so much? Hold up Inaya Mehta are you falling in love with someone through a few letters?? I sat there bewildered, I gotta be kidding myself right now!
I sat there, blinking at my ceiling like it had the answers.
No.
Maybe.
Oh god.
What if I am?
What if I'm falling for a voice? A vibe?? A blinking cursor with better emotional range than half the men on this campus?
I pictured him — not realistically, of course. In my head, he's got messy black hair, and sad eyes, probably wearing something unnecessarily dramatic like a turtleneck even in summer. Tall. Writes in cursive. Listens to jazz. Smells like paper and regret.
"You're insane," I whispered to myself.
The worst part?
I smiled.
My trance was broken by Kavya snapping her fingers in front of me!
"Earth to Aya!"
I nearly fell off the bed.
"Kav? Are you talking to me?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"We both know I can't go without talking to you for more than a few weeks," she said before launching herself into a hug so tight it reset my ribcage.
"I missed you."
"I missed you more."
Our voices overlapped, and we both paused — then laughed like the universe had been waiting for that one stupid punchline.
She handed me a cup of chai like it was holy water.
"Now spill," she said. "The pen pal guy?? Oh, to my BinAya heart."
I rolled my eyes. "You're so dramatic."
"And you're so in denial."
I exhaled slowly.
"Okay fine. I just… I don't know what he looks like, Kavya. Like, what if he's short?"
"So?? You're short."
"I'm cute short. That's different."
"Height-shaming a fictional boy. New low."
"He's not fictional!" I said, instantly regretting how defensive I sounded.
She gasped. "You like him. YOU LIKE HIM."
I buried my face in the chai.
"No, I don't."
Silence.
"Okay, maybe I do."
Silence again.
"...A little."
She smirked so hard her cheekbones nearly popped.
"Say less."
"Okay but seriously—" I started, now that I'd accepted my insanity out loud.
"What if he's, like, not my type?"
Kavya blinked. "Girl. You just told me you've emotionally bonded with this man through words, and now you're worried about his cheekbones?"
I ignored her. I was on a roll.
"Like what if he's short? Like short-short? Or has a weird haircut? What if he wears socks with sandals?"
"Aya—"
"No wait, let me be shallow in peace. What if he's blonde?? Or has, like, green eyes??"
"Girl what??"
"I'm just saying—if I'm gonna emotionally combust over a man, I'd like him to have tragic black hair and brown eyes that scream 'I have unresolved trauma.'"
Kavya nearly dropped her tea.
"You're out here designing a sad anime boy while the real guy is just out there existing."
"Shut up. Let me dream."
"You're down catastrophically, Aya."
"I KNOW."
She smirked.
"Honestly? I hope he's short and blonde now. Just for the drama."
I gasped. "You evil witch."
"I prefer the term chaotic neutral."
That night, I opened my journal. He doesn't even know my real name. He's never seen me cry, laugh, trip on air, or yell at street dogs. And yet… I feel like he sees me clearer than most people who do. What kind of magic is that?I didn't have an answer. So I did what I always do. I wrote.
"Unread Drafts"by Inaya (obviously)
i don't know your face,
but i've memorized your commas.
your pauses feel more like
presence
than half the people who sit beside me.
you say less,
but i feel more.
isn't that terrifying?
i think about you
more often than i should—
a voice, a line,
an echo signed "RT."
i pretend not to imagine
your laugh,
your eyes,
whether you bite your lip when you're nervous
or if you'd like my chai too sweet.
maybe this is all a projection.
maybe I'm just pouring everything I wish someone would say
into someone who never promised to stay.
but when the inbox lights up
and your words appear—
even pixelated,
you feel
Real.
Rabin.Subject: Silence is louder than it seems
Dear IM,
I read your letter. Then I read it again.
Then I stared at a blank screen for twenty minutes trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say when someone says things that most people wouldn't even think out loud.
So I'll start here:
I don't think you're crazy. Or dramatic. Or too much.
If anything, I think you're brave.
Brave for still being soft in a world that keeps handing you reasons not to be.
And as for me...
There are things I want to say.
But they sound better in my head.
Safer.
I guess that's always been my problem — silence is easier to manage. You can control it. You can't misunderstand silence.
But I'll give you this:
I hate noise.
But silence? It's not peaceful for me. It's just... loud in a different way.
I grew up in a house where words were either shouted or swallowed. So I stopped using them.
Writing feels safer than speaking.
There's time to revise. Time to decide if you're brave enough to be honest.
(I still don't know if I am.)
But I meant what I said.
If you write, I'll read.
Even if I don't always know how to reply.
P.S. You asked if I'm really like this in real life.
No one's ever asked that before.
And the truth is — I don't know.
I think I'm still figuring it out.
Hauntingly yours,
— RT
Inaya.Subject: Do I Even Make Sense?
Dear RT,
Okay, I'm going to ask something and I need you to promise not to laugh —
Do I make sense to you?
Like actually.
Because sometimes I feel like I'm just throwing emotional darts in the dark and hoping they land somewhere other than "annoying."
You always sound so… balanced. Like your emotions went to finishing school or something. And here I am — running in circles with my heart in one hand and a half-written poem in the other.
Sometimes I read your replies and wonder if I'm too much. Too messy. Too loud for someone like you.
But then I tell myself that maybe that's okay. Maybe some people are meant to echo and others are meant to listen.
Still, part of me wishes I knew you better.
Not in a creepy stalker way, I swear.
I just… I wonder who you are outside the letters.
Do you talk the way you write? Do you overthink before you speak too? Do you say things and immediately want to rewind the universe and redo them?
(Because same.)
Anyway. I didn't mean to get all dramatic. I had a really long day and I guess this letter just kind of… spilled.
So if you're still reading — thank you.
You don't know how much that means.
Annoyingly yours,
— IM
P.S. Still waiting on that tragic backstory reveal. No pressure. Just… curious.
Rabin.I didn't reply right away.
I never do.
I read her letter, let the words settle under my skin like they always do — not sharp, not loud, just there, like the feeling you get before rain.
And then I wrote back. Slowly. Hesitantly.
Drafted it. Deleted it. Wrote it again.
Because that's what she does to me.
Makes me feel like silence isn't enough anymore.
She asks questions like she's not scared of the answers.
And that terrifies me.
I don't even know what she looks like.
But I know how her brain works at 3 a.m.
I know how she tastes sadness — half-joking, half-breaking.
I know she cries quietly and probably hates herself for it.
And yet I can't even give her a name. A photo. A truth.
"You gonna keep staring at your screen like it's gonna kiss you back, or…?"
I turned my head slowly.
Of course. Hideya.
He flopped down into the chair across from me, tray in hand, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He didn't even look up.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered.
"Like what? Like you're very clearly emotionally invested in someone you refuse to call by her full name?"
"Her name is—"
"—IM. Yeah. I know. You only mention it every time you don't want to talk about her."
I stayed quiet. I always do.
He sighed — dramatically, of course — and leaned forward.
"Dude, I've seen you ignore texts from our profs, our group chats, and literal job opportunities. But her?"
"It's different."
"Different how?"
"…She writes like she's bleeding on purpose. But only enough to be polite about it."
Hideya blinked.
"Damn."
"She makes me want to answer. That's the worst part."
"That doesn't sound like a bad thing."
"It is when you've built your whole personality around staying quiet."
He chewed silently for a moment, then grinned.
"You're in deep, Takahashi. Like, tragically-deep. Main-character-movie-montage deep."
"She doesn't even know my real name."
"You think that's gonna stop her from ruining your entire worldview? Bro."
He wasn't wrong.
That's the problem.