The nights in Coimbatore were beginning to feel less cold.
Ayana found herself glancing at her phone more often than usual. Every time the notification sound chimed, her heart skipped a beat. Sometimes it wasn't him. But when it was—when it was Dimas—her world slowed just a little.
It was 9:46 PM. Her room dimly lit by a single desk lamp, Ayana sat cross-legged on her bed, brushing her fingers against the screen, rereading his last message.
> Dimas:
You know what's weird? I don't even know what you look like. But talking to you feels... familiar. Like I've known you before, in another life or something.
She hesitated for a moment, then typed.
> Ayana:
Maybe souls recognize each other before faces do.
Send.
She bit her lip. That sounded too poetic, didn't it?
But Dimas replied almost instantly.
> Dimas:
Okay... wow. I'm gonna write that down. That line is going into a future chapter. You've been warned.
Ayana smiled. The kind of smile that happened naturally, unconsciously. The kind that made her cheeks warm.
---
Far away in Balikpapan, Dimas was lying on his stomach in his tiny bedroom, phone resting on his pillow. His fan whirred softly above, mixing with the chirps of night insects. He had work early in the morning, but somehow, sleep could wait.
> Dimas:
So, what do you like most about reading?
Ayana paused. No one had ever really asked her that before—not like this.
> Ayana:
I like that books let me be someone else.
Even just for a while.
In books, I'm not the quiet girl who fades into the background. I'm the hero. Or the girl who gets noticed. Or the one who finally says the thing she's too scared to say out loud.
There was a long pause.
> Dimas:
That's beautiful.
That's exactly why I write.
---
They began talking every night.
No video calls. No photos.
Just words—typed slowly, thoughtfully.
They shared songs. Excerpts from books. Small things. Honest things.
Dimas would sometimes send Ayana snippets of his work-in-progress chapters, and she would reply with careful comments and emoji reactions that made him smile in the dark.
One night, Ayana asked,
> Ayana:
When did you first start writing?
> Dimas:
Back in junior high.
After my dad died, I didn't want to talk to anyone. But words... they listened.
Writing helped me feel like I still existed.
Ayana took a long breath before replying.
> Ayana:
I get that.
Sometimes I feel invisible too.
Like if I disappeared, nothing would change in this house. Or this town.
> Dimas:
You're not invisible to me.
She stared at those six words.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to say.
But for once, silence wasn't heavy. It felt warm. It felt okay.
---
The next night, Ayana sent Dimas a voice message. Just a short one. Six seconds of her humming a Tamil lullaby her mother used to sing.
It was barely a song. Just a breath of melody.
Dimas played it five times.
He didn't say much afterward, just:
> Dimas:
That... made my night.
Then he sent her back something too—a 10-second voice note. Just the sound of light rain falling on his roof, and in the background, the faint tapping of a keyboard.
Ayana listened with her eyes closed.
They were strangers.
They didn't know each other's faces.
Didn't know favorite foods, birthdays, or family names.
But they knew how each other felt.
And somehow, that was enough for now.
---
Days passed.
Nights flowed into early mornings.
On Ayana's end, the world stayed the same—quiet home, quiet school, quiet heart. But her evenings began to bloom. With one person. With one unseen thread of connection.
She was still scared.
Scared of hoping. Scared of wanting.
But she couldn't deny it anymore.
When she read his name on her phone, it felt like coming up for air.
---
One evening, Dimas typed something different.
> Dimas:
Do you ever wonder what we'd say if we met in person?
Ayana stared at the message for almost five minutes.
Then she typed slowly.
> Ayana:
Maybe... we wouldn't need to say anything.
Maybe we'd just sit in silence.
And that silence would say enough.
---
It rained in both their cities that night.
On two different islands.
Two different time zones.
But under the same sky.