The chat thread between IronQuill and MoonInk started off like a friendly exchange between two writers who happened to stumble across each other's work.
IronQuill:Your last story… the way you described the lanterns in the river—felt like I was standing there.
MoonInk:You actually read it? Most people just hit like and leave.
IronQuill:Words deserve more than a thumbs up. Yours… especially.
That message lingered with her longer than she expected. She found herself waiting for his next comment, checking the app more often than usual. He wasn't like the other readers — he asked about her characters' backstories, about the emotions behind certain lines, as if he could see past the page and into the space where the story had been born.
Days blurred into weeks, and soon their chats spilled beyond story critiques. They talked about music — she liked soft indie bands, he preferred instrumental piano pieces. They talked about food — she was vegetarian, he swore by late-night cups of chai.
But when it came to personal details, they were careful. No real names. No cities. No sharing photos. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was comfort — the anonymity felt safe.
One night, she messaged him first.
MoonInk:What's your favourite time of day?
IronQuill:Early morning. Before the world wakes up. Everything's quieter. Feels like the day belongs to me.
She smiled at her phone. She'd never told anyone, but she felt the same way. It was strange — how someone you didn't know could feel so familiar.
And in a way, their secrecy made it more intense. Every word felt deliberate. Every reply felt like a page in a book they were writing together.
It wasn't love yet. But it was something that made her heart beat a little faster when his username popped up.
Neither of them knew it, but this quiet connection on a book app was about to change the way they looked at both writing — and each other — forever.