The first time Raka saw Nayla in the group chat, her presence dropped in like a digital cold front.
Everyone was joking about their latest book club pick, throwing memes, sarcastic quips, and outrageous takes about the ending, when Nayla suddenly typed her first message.
"That character was inconsistent."
No emoji. No elaboration. Just a cold literary diagnosis.
The chat went awkwardly quiet for a second. Some shrugged it off and kept joking. Others ignored her entirely. But Raka noticed.
And replied:
"Right? It's like the author changed direction halfway through writing her."
No one else reacted. Nayla didn't either.
Until two days later.
Out of nowhere, she DM'd him a book title and author. No greeting. No explanation.
"Try this instead."
He did. He devoured it in three nights. It hit hard. The protagonist reminded him of Nayla quiet, misunderstood, deeply perceptive. She didn't say much, but everything she did say had weight.
He texted her:
"That book broke me in the best way. Thanks."
She replied an hour later:
"That's why I sent it."
And just like that, they started talking. Quietly. Carefully. Away from the chaos of the group.
But in the group, people still judged her.
"She's cold," someone wrote once.
"She's real," Raka wanted to type.
He didn't.
Because online, she was cold. Her tone didn't translate. She didn't bother softening her words or wrapping opinions in smiley faces. She didn't perform.
But offline?
She was soft-spoken. Observant. Intentionally warm in small, quiet ways.
Raka wasn't sure which version of her was the "real" one.
Maybe both were.
Maybe she just needed a space where she didn't have to explain herself.
And he was slowly becoming that space.