It was their third time meeting in person always in public, always casual.
Nayla chose the café this time. A quiet place tucked behind a bookstore, where the baristas wore cardigans and indie music played so softly it was almost part of the furniture.
Raka arrived early. She arrived exactly on time.
"Hi," she said softly, brushing hair from her face.
"Hey," he smiled, standing instinctively.
They ordered drinks. He got something sweet, she got something dark. They sat by the window, where rainy light bled through half-open blinds.
The conversation was slow. Raka asked about her week. She answered in fragments.
But she also asked him things: how his writing was going, whether his mom was feeling better after last week's cold. She remembered details no one else did.
And when he joked about the last book she recommended being "emotional sabotage," she actually laughed. Not a message. Not a "lol." A real laugh.
Raka stared at her for a moment, surprised.
"You laugh in real life," he teased.
Nayla gave a small shrug. "Only when it's funny."
He grinned. "So memes aren't funny?"
Her smile faltered. "I don't always know how to reply online."
"I figured," he said, gently.
They sipped coffee and watched the rain slide down the glass. It was a different kind of intimacy, not electric, not dramatic. Just… peaceful.
No pressure to perform. No need to fill the silence.
At one point, their fingers brushed when she passed him a napkin. She didn't flinch.
When it was time to leave, Raka walked her to the train station.
She didn't say much as they waited.
But as her train approached, she turned and said, "I'm glad we did this."
Just like that.
Simple. Unemotional. But it made his heart stumble.
He was glad, too.