Ayana stared at the screen.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
You first :)
That smiley face—it disarmed her. She hadn't expected something so gentle. She thought he would deflect the question, maybe even disappear. But he didn't. He stayed. He asked.
She took a deep breath.
This shouldn't feel like a big deal. People online called each other by names all the time. But for Ayana, her name wasn't just a label. It was something she had protected. Something she had rarely heard said with affection, even in her own home.
But now, it was ready to be given.
She typed.
> "Ayana.
That's my name.
It means 'beautiful blossom' in Sanskrit.
But I don't think it suits me."
She pressed send before her fear could stop her.
The reply came fast.
> "Ayana.
I think it suits you perfectly.
I'm Dimas.
My mom told me it means 'calm light' in Javanese.
I don't always feel calm. But I try."
She smiled.
Out loud.
That's what surprised her the most. She smiled out loud. No one was in her room. No one saw it. But it happened, and it was real.
She typed:
> "Hi, Dimas. It's nice to finally meet you."
---
In Kalimantan, Dimas leaned back in his chair, heart racing a little faster than it should.
Ayana.
It sounded like a name from a poem. Like something written under a tree on an old journal. He didn't know what he expected—maybe something more common. But Ayana… Ayana was soft. And strong. And somehow exactly what he thought she would be.
He replied with a photo.
Not of himself. Not yet.
Just a picture of the sky that evening, shot from the balcony behind his room. It was full of clouds and golden streaks of light breaking through.
> "This was the sky today. I thought it looked like it was holding something in."
She replied:
> "Just like me."
---
They didn't talk all the time.
Sometimes, a whole day would pass in silence, and neither of them would feel pressured to explain. Their conversation wasn't needy. It wasn't performative. It simply was—like a slow-burning candle between them, steady and warm.
Ayana would read a few pages from a novel and send him her favorite quote.
Dimas would share a line from a story he was editing, asking, "Does this feel true?"
And sometimes, they talked about everything that didn't fit in daily life.
Like the ache of being misunderstood.
Like parents who meant well but never listened deeply.
Like walking through school corridors or classrooms, surrounded by people, yet feeling completely alone.
> "I don't hate my life," Ayana wrote once.
"But sometimes I feel like I'm watching someone else live it."
> "I know that feeling," Dimas replied.
"Like you're behind a glass wall. Waving. But no one sees."
---
On the twelfth day since they exchanged names, Ayana did something bold.
She sent a voice note.
It was only ten seconds long. She didn't say anything important. Just: "Hi, Dimas. I don't know why, but I thought maybe you should hear what I sound like. I hope this isn't weird."
Her voice was soft. Slightly nervous. But it carried something sincere.
Dimas listened to it three times. Then replied:
> "Not weird at all.
It's the nicest sound I've heard all week."
He didn't send his voice right away. He wasn't sure why. Maybe because hers felt like music, and he was afraid to break the spell.
But that night, he recorded something. A simple line.
> "Hey, Ayana. It's me. I'm glad we're talking."
She played it over and over.
Not because of how it sounded—but because of what it meant.
It meant that this wasn't just two usernames typing in the dark.
They were becoming real.
---
One evening, Ayana was sitting at her desk, half-reading an old webnovel when Dimas's message popped up.
> "If we met in real life, do you think we'd recognize each other?"
She stared at the question.
A strange shiver ran down her spine.
> "Maybe not at first," she typed.
"But I think we'd feel it.
Like… some invisible thread pulling."
He replied:
> "That's beautiful.
That's exactly how I imagined it."
Then he sent another message:
> "Sometimes I wonder what you look like. But at the same time, I'm afraid knowing might ruin this."
Ayana's hands paused over her keyboard.
She understood. So well.
The magic wasn't just in not knowing—it was in the trust. In the imagination. In the way their words had built a space that didn't need to be perfect or pretty or filtered.
> "I get it," she wrote.
"I wonder too.
But maybe we don't need faces to know each other."
> "Yeah," he said.
"Maybe we're building something deeper than that."
---
Some nights, they would write poems.
Ayana didn't think she was good at it, but Dimas always said her words felt like silk soaked in moonlight. She laughed at that. Called him dramatic.
He didn't mind.
She shared one:
> "Somewhere in a world without names,
Two voices hum a quiet song.
Not love, not yet.
But something close.
Like rain touching fingers through glass."
He saved it.
He didn't say so, but he saved all her words.
---
In school, Ayana began to notice the silence less. Her classmates still didn't really talk to her, but the difference was—she didn't feel alone. Not in the same way.
In the library, she'd open her notebook and see little fragments Dimas had sent: "The sky doesn't have to be clear to be beautiful." Or "Some days are meant to be quiet."
They were like footprints. Invisible to others. But solid beneath her steps.
And in Kalimantan, Dimas wrote with more joy.
He didn't tell Ayana, but she had become his favorite reader—the one he wrote for. Her silence gave his words meaning. Her replies reminded him that stories didn't end when they were uploaded. Sometimes, they began there.
---
Late one night, Ayana wrote:
> "I think I've forgotten how this started.
Just a story. A comment. A line.
And now… I check my phone and think of you.
Is that strange?"
Dimas replied:
> "No.
I check mine too.
And I wonder what part of the world you're looking at right now."
> "Tamil Nadu," she wrote.
"South India."
He paused.
He'd suspected it. From her phrasing. Her silence. Her rhythm.
He smiled and typed:
> "Indonesia. East Borneo."
There it was.
A line drawn across oceans.
From Kalimantan to Tamil Nadu.
A thousand miles.
And yet, not far at all.
---
Ayana looked out her window.
Beyond the rooftops, the moon floated in the sky, glowing like a watchful eye. She whispered his name into the night—just once—like a wish, not expecting an answer.
Somewhere far away, under the same sky, Dimas sat by his desk, rereading their messages. He didn't hear her voice. But somehow, he felt it.
Their worlds had been separate. Still were.
But their names now lived in each other's quiet moments.
And that was enough.
For now.