The night air in Kalimantan was warm and soft, heavy with the scent of damp soil after rain. Dimas sat alone on the rooftop of his boarding house, phone in hand, legs dangling over the edge, his heart strangely expectant.
One new message.
From the same girl who'd left that comment two nights ago.
> Ayana:
"Your characters feel like they exist. It's weird how I cried over someone fictional."
He smiled, thumbs hovering over the screen.
> Dimas:
"That's the highest compliment any writer can get. Thank you. Really."
The conversation had started with something small, but it hadn't stopped.
One comment turned into three.
Three became a full DM.
Now, it had become nightly.
Ayana didn't say much at first.
Short replies, cautious phrasing.
But Dimas didn't mind.
There was something calming about the way she spoke—or typed. As if every word had weight.
Back in Tamil Nadu, Ayana sat on her bedroom floor, curled up in a shawl, phone glowing against the shadows. Her mother had gone to sleep. The house was silent except for the distant barking of a dog.
She hesitated before sending her next message.
> Ayana:
"Do people ever call you strange for writing so much?"
> Dimas:
"All the time."
> Ayana:
"Same. I don't write. I read. Obsessively. My classmates say it's boring."
> Dimas:
"They don't know what they're missing."
She smiled. Her lips barely moved, but her eyes softened.
It was strange. She'd never talked to someone like this.
Someone who didn't try to flirt.
Didn't ask for pictures.
Didn't comment on her appearance—because he didn't even know what she looked like.
He only knew her thoughts.
And somehow, he liked her anyway.
---
The next night, Dimas sent her a voice note. Not his voice—just the sound of ocean waves. He'd recorded it during a trip to Berau last year.
> Dimas:
"Thought you might like this. The sea helps me think."
Ayana played the sound over and over. She imagined the waves, the wind, and Dimas somewhere nearby, sitting alone, notebook in hand.
She didn't say much. Just replied:
> Ayana:
"I like the sea too. But I've never seen it in real life."
That made him pause.
> Dimas:
"Never?"
> Ayana:
"I live inland. Travel isn't easy here. Plus... my parents don't let me go out much."
Dimas thought for a second.
> Dimas:
"Then one day, I'll bring the sea to you. In words, if nothing else."
---
Night after night, their chats grew longer.
Not romantic. Not yet.
But honest. And warm.
They told each other small things:
How Ayana liked dipping biscuits into tea until they almost broke.
How Dimas always kept a tiny pencil stub in his wallet—his "lucky" writing tool.
How Ayana once got lost in a bookstore for three hours and felt safer there than in her own classroom.
Sometimes, Dimas would read her a line from whatever he was working on.
> "He didn't know her name, but he knew her silence. And somehow, that was enough."
> Ayana:
"That line… feels familiar."
> Dimas:
"Maybe it's yours now."
---
They never used their full names.
Dimas knew her as "AyanaReading".
She knew him as "MidnightPages".
It was intentional.
A choice.
There was a strange comfort in the anonymity.
No photos. No expectations.
Just two people, meeting at the same hour every night, connected by shared silence and invisible lines of text.
---
One night, Ayana asked something different.
> Ayana:
"Do you think this—what we're doing—is real?"
Dimas stared at the question for a long time.
The wind outside had quieted.
His phone screen dimmed. He tapped it again, rereading her message.
> Dimas:
"What do you mean?"
> Ayana:
"I mean... can you really know someone like this? Through texts? Through nothing but stories and late-night messages?"
He thought about it. Then typed:
> Dimas:
"I think some people are easier to talk to in the dark."
Ayana didn't respond immediately.
But a minute later, he saw the typing dots appear.
> Ayana:
"Yeah. Maybe we're both better in the dark."
> Dimas:
"It's not a bad thing. Darkness isn't always empty. Sometimes it's quiet enough to hear what matters."
> Ayana:
"You write like that all the time?"
> Dimas:
"Only when I'm talking to you."
She laughed—softly. Her first real laugh in days.
And he couldn't hear it.
But somehow, he felt it.
---
For the first time in months, Ayana didn't feel alone in her room.
And for the first time in years, Dimas didn't feel like he was writing for a void.
They still didn't know what each other looked like.
But maybe—just maybe—there are some things more important than faces.
Like timing.
And honesty.
And the courage to stay up at 1:43 a.m. just to type:
> Ayana:
"Good night, stranger."
> Dimas:
"Good night, almost-not-a-stranger."