Chapter 1: When the Night Brought Her Name..
The night in Ungma Village was quiet, wrapped in that kind of silence that makes you hear your own thoughts. Crickets whispered in the grass, and the dim light from a single bulb flickered against the bamboo walls of a small room. A phone screen glowed faintly in the dark — and on it, a boy named Imkong, seventeen, scrolled through his line feed with half-sleepy eyes.
He wasn't looking for anything special. Just faces, random posts, memes, and the usual noise of social media that fills empty nights. But sometimes, fate hides in the smallest scroll, in the name you never expect to see.
And then it happened.
A profile appeared — "Iris."
The name alone felt different, like a song he hadn't heard before but somehow knew. He opened the profile. Her photo loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, as the network in the hills lagged behind. But when it finally appeared, something inside him froze.
She wasn't trying to look perfect. There was no filter, no fancy background — just a girl smiling softly, eyes calm yet holding a spark that could light up someone's whole world.
And in that moment, under the flickering bulb and the hum of the night, Imkong felt something shift — a small, unfamiliar pull that would later grow into something far deeper.
He hesitated for a while. His thumb hovered over the Add Friend button.
"Should I?" he whispered to himself.
It wasn't about courage — it was about hope. The quiet kind of hope that sneaks in when life feels still.
And then, he clicked it.
A soft sound — "Friend request sent."
That was it. A single click that would change everything.
---
The night went on. He didn't expect much. Maybe she'd never even notice it. Maybe she'd think he was just another random stranger. He set the phone aside, lay back on the thin mattress, and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the wind brushed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of earth after evening rain.
He thought about how strange life was — how people came and went, how some faces stayed in your memory longer than they should.
But then, ping! — a notification.
He sat up.
> "Iris accepted your friend request."
For a second, his heart forgot how to beat.
He reread it. Once. Twice. Just to make sure it was real.
Then another notification came —
> "Hi :)"
Just two letters and a smile, but to him, it felt like sunlight breaking into a dark room.
He smiled, typing back.
> "Hey, Iris. Didn't expect you'd reply."
> "Haha why not? You look chill," she replied.
And that was it — a simple start, yet something about her words felt warm, genuine. They began talking — about random things at first. Music. School. Food. Life in different towns. She lived in Brent knoll, though her roots were from Adrens Hill, far away. The distance between them didn't matter; their conversations made it feel like she was sitting right there beside him.
---
Days turned into weeks.
Their messages became longer, deeper. Every night, the blue light of his phone became his world, and every "ping" of her text was a heartbeat.
Imkong wasn't the type to talk much. In school, he was just another face — quiet, average, unnoticed. But with her, words came easily. She had a way of making him feel seen, like his thoughts mattered.
Iris was kind, caring — always asking if he'd eaten, if his day went okay. She'd send him pictures of sunsets from Brent knoll, and he'd send her photos of the hills and cloudy skies over Ungma. Two places, one feeling.
He didn't realize it then, but he was falling — slowly, helplessly.
---
One night, around midnight, they were still texting.
The world outside was asleep, but their chat was alive — full of laughter and secrets.
> Iris: "You ever fall for someone, Imkong?"
Imkong: "Nah… never. I guess I don't even know what love feels like."
Iris: "You will. It's quiet at first. Then it gets louder every day."
Imkong: "How would you know?"
Iris: "Maybe I already do."
He paused. Reread her message. His heart began to beat faster — not from confusion, but from something deeper. He didn't reply right away. Sometimes silence says what words can't.
---
That night, after she went offline, he couldn't sleep. He stared at her profile picture again, tracing the shape of her smile with his eyes.
She's just… different, he thought. The way she talks, the way she cares — it's like she understands things I never said.
And that's when he realized — this wasn't just a crush.
It was something real, something alive.
But real things… they always come with risk.
Somewhere deep down, he felt a whisper — that not all beautiful beginnings last forever. Yet, in that moment, he didn't care.
Because for the first time in his seventeen years, he felt like the main character of his own story.
And her name was Iris.
The nights grew longer, softer. In Ungma, December winds carried the scent of smoke from faraway kitchens, and every time Imkong saw his breath in the cold air, he thought of the tiny typing dots on his screen.
> Iris is typing…
It was strange how three moving dots could hold so much power.
Some nights they would talk until dawn crept into his window — sharing childhood memories, secret fears, and random jokes that made no sense but still felt perfect.
---
> Iris: "Do you ever wish you could freeze time?"
Imkong: "All the time."
Iris: "Why?"
Imkong: "Because good moments never stay."
She sent a heart emoji. Nothing fancy. Yet it hit harder than poetry.
> Iris: "Maybe they don't stay so we can learn to treasure them while they last."
He didn't reply right away. He read that line again and again, realizing that sometimes she said things that sounded simple but carried entire worlds inside.
---
Every day after school, Imkong would rush home, finish chores, and wait for the internet to return.
Ungma wasn't a place of constant connection — the network faded with the wind, and yet somehow, she was always there when the signal returned, like the universe wanted their timing to match.
She'd send pictures of city lights, busy streets, the chaos of Brent knoll; he'd send her hills covered in fog, green fields, and the bamboo forest behind his house.
Two worlds apart — one built of motion, the other of stillness — yet both met in a single chat window glowing in the dark.
---
With each passing day, Imkong found pieces of himself inside her words.
She reminded him to eat, to dream big, to forgive himself for being quiet.
He reminded her that kindness wasn't weakness, and that even through distance, someone truly cared.
And slowly, what started as small talk became something sacred.
A shared space where they could drop the masks the world made them wear.
---
Weeks later.
It was a Friday night — one of those cold ones where the moon hides behind thin clouds and everything feels suspended in stillness.
Imkong lay on his bed, staring at their chat window, scrolling up to the very first message.
> "Hi :)"
He smiled. The same way he did that night.
He didn't know what pushed him — maybe the loneliness, maybe the way she made his world brighter — but something inside whispered that he had to tell her the truth.
His heart was racing, his fingers trembling.
He typed, deleted, retyped. Over and over.
> Imkong: "Hey Iris… can I tell you something?"
She replied within seconds.
> Iris: "Of course. What's up?"
He stared at the screen.
A thousand thoughts battled inside — what if she laughs? what if it ruins everything?
But then again, what if she felt the same?
He took a deep breath and typed.
> Imkong: "I think I'm falling for you."
Then silence.
The longest silence of his life.
He watched her profile picture glow — seen 11:47 PM.
He waited. The night felt endless.
Minutes stretched like hours. He could almost hear his heartbeat echoing off the bamboo walls.
He thought of deleting the message, pretending it was a joke, pretending it never happened — but before he could, another message appeared.
> Iris: "You sure it's not just a feeling?"
Imkong: "Maybe it is. But if it is, it's the best feeling I've ever had."
Then nothing.
Five minutes. Ten.
He stared at the screen until his eyes burned.
He turned the phone face down, buried his head in the pillow, whispering, "What did I just do?"
And just when he was ready to give up — ping.
> Iris: "I like you too."
He froze. Then reread it. And reread again.
The words felt unreal — like a dream written in digital ink.
> Imkong: "Wait… really?"
Iris: "Yeah. You're different, Imkong. You make things feel… peaceful."
For a few seconds, he didn't know what to type.
He was smiling so wide it almost hurt.
His fingers flew across the screen.
> Imkong: "Then… can I call you mine?"
Iris: "Haha, slow down. But yes… I guess you can."
---
He put the phone aside, staring at the roof, his heart racing faster than it ever had.
He'd done it. He'd confessed.
The boy who'd always thought he was a side character had finally stepped into his own story.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees like applause.
Somewhere far away, maybe in Brent knoll, she was smiling too.
And in that shared silence, even through distance, their hearts spoke the same language — the language of first love.
---
That night, Imkong couldn't sleep.
He kept checking his phone, scrolling through their old chats, replaying every moment like a movie he didn't want to end.
He didn't know what the future held.
He didn't know that life had its own way of testing promises made in the warmth of youth.
But for now, none of it mattered.
Because in that fragile, beautiful moment, two souls had found each other — not in person, but in words.
And sometimes, that's where the truest stories begin.
Mornings began with notifications now.
Before the roosters crowed or the first rays touched Ungma's hills, Imkong's phone would light up.
> Iris: "Morning sleepyhead 😄 hope you dreamt of me again haha"
Imkong: "How do you know I did?"
Iris: "Because I did too."
He would grin at the screen, half-awake, hair messy, heart full.
The village outside was slow, but his world moved at the rhythm of her messages.
---
They talked about everything and nothing—about how fog swallowed the fields each morning, about Brent knoll's restless streets, about how sometimes people looked happy but weren't.
> Imkong: "Ever feel like life's too fast to understand?"
Iris: "Maybe it's not fast. Maybe we're just scared to pause."
That was Iris. She could turn simple words into mirrors.
---
Days blurred into months.
Every evening, as the sky bruised purple, they'd text until their thumbs ached.
Sometimes it was jokes—silly ones about village goats or food cravings.
Sometimes it was quiet, deep talk about their futures.
> Iris: "If I could teleport, I'd go to your village just to see those stars."
Imkong: "They're not as bright as you imagine."
Iris: "Then you've never looked at them with me."
He'd read that again and smile until the battery died.
---
When exams came, they studied "together," phones resting beside textbooks.
He'd send photos of messy notes; she'd send encouragement and doodles of hearts hidden inside formulas.
> Iris: "Stop stressing. You're gonna pass, my smart village boy 💪💖"
Imkong: "Haha you believe in me more than I do."
Iris: "That's what love does. It lends faith."
He screenshotted that line, saving it like a secret charm.
---
There were small fights too—tiny storms inside their chat box.
Once he forgot to reply for hours because of weak network; she went silent all night.
He apologized the next day, words flooding out faster than the signal could carry.
> Imkong: "I didn't ignore you, Iris. The network died."
Iris: "I know. I just… missed you, that's all."
No anger, just vulnerability.
And somehow, those moments made their bond stronger.
---
Sometimes, she'd send voice notes—but he never opened them; the rule was texts only.
He liked to imagine her voice from her words, soft and calm.
It made her more like a dream he didn't want to fully wake from.
---
> Iris: "You ever think we met for a reason?"
Imkong: "Yeah. But maybe the reason isn't clear yet."
Iris: "Maybe love itself is the reason."
He thought about that for a long time.
How two people from different towns, connected by chance, could make distance feel irrelevant.
He realized love wasn't about touch—it was about understanding.
---
Months passed.
He'd begun to imagine a future where distance didn't exist—where maybe one day he'd travel to Brent knoll, see her in the crowd, smile, and say, "So it was you all along."
But for now, their love existed in messages and late-night promises.
> Iris: "Promise me we'll never stop talking."
Imkong: "I promise."
Iris: "Even if life changes?"
Imkong: "Even then."
The screen glowed between them like a fragile flame against the dark.
Neither knew how hard life could blow when the time came—but tonight, the light was steady, and that was enough.
---
Sometimes, when the moon hid behind clouds, Imkong felt that old whisper again—the one that warned that nothing stays.
But he'd shake it away, typing another message.
Because when you're seventeen and in love, you believe that forever can be typed one line at a time.
The new year came quietly.
Ungma's hills were wrapped in fog, and the air carried a chill that made each morning slower, heavier.
For a while, nothing changed between them.
The messages still came — good mornings, sweet dreams, the little nothings that had become everything.
But time has a way of testing every promise.
---
It started small.
A missed reply.
A "seen" left unanswered for hours.
Then days when her messages came later than usual.
At first, Imkong didn't think much of it.
Maybe she was busy. Maybe her classes had started again.
He tried to stay calm, to not let overthinking ruin what they had.
But the mind, once used to constant warmth, feels the cold quickly.
> Imkong: "Hey Iris, everything okay? Haven't heard from you much lately."
Iris: "Yeah, just tired. Been busy these days."
Imkong: "Oh. Okay. Just checking on you."
Iris: "You're sweet. I'll text when I can, promise 💗"
He smiled at the emoji — but somewhere deep inside, something already hurt.
It wasn't her fault. It wasn't his either.
It was just life — sneaking in between words, taking space where once there was none.
---
Weeks passed.
Sometimes she'd vanish for days.
Sometimes he'd stare at the last message she sent — "Take care, okay?" — and wonder why it felt like a goodbye in disguise.
He'd type long messages and delete them before sending.
He didn't want to seem clingy. He didn't want to lose her because of fear.
But fear was all he felt.
> Imkong: "Miss talking to you."
Iris: "I miss you too. Just… things are heavy lately."
Those words hit him harder than she knew.
Heavy.
He wanted to ask what was wrong, to fix it somehow, but he couldn't reach across distance or the walls time was building between them.
---
Some nights he'd scroll back through their old chats, rereading the laughter, the promises, the quiet confessions.
It felt like watching a movie where the ending was missing — where the characters stopped talking halfway through.
He began to write in a notebook — things he wished he could tell her.
Simple lines like:
> "I still look for your name every time my phone lights up."
"I don't blame you for drifting away. I just hope you're okay."
"If love is patient, I'll wait — but please don't let silence be our last word."
He never sent those words. They stayed trapped in ink and memory.
---
Then one night, around 2:00 AM, his phone buzzed.
A message. Her name.
> Iris: "Hey. Sorry I've been distant. Life's just… complicated right now."
Imkong: "I understand. Just know I'm still here, okay?"
Iris: "I know you are. You always were."
He waited for more, but nothing came.
That was the last message for weeks.
---
In the silence that followed, Imkong learned something he never expected to —
that love doesn't always end loudly.
Sometimes, it fades like music in another room — you can still hear it if you listen close enough, but it's no longer yours.
He'd still text her sometimes — small things, small hopes.
Sometimes she replied. Sometimes she didn't.
But he never stopped.
Because in his heart, she wasn't gone.
She was just far away — living, changing, growing — like the stars he used to show her in photos.
You can't touch them, but they're still there.
---
And as the months passed, he looked at the same sky and whispered her name into the wind.
Maybe she heard it. Maybe not.
But something inside him shifted again — the same way it did that first night he found her.
Only this time, it wasn't a spark. It was the slow beginning of letting go.