Nayla had never liked attention.
Not in class. Not in crowds. Not even in friend circles where compliments were casually tossed like confetti. Praise made her skin itch. It always felt like an expectation she hadn't asked for.
But when Raka told her his friends were performing at an open mic night and asked her to come, she didn't say no.
She surprised them both when she said, "I'll come. Just… don't make me talk to everyone."
He grinned. "Deal. I'll do the socializing. You do the mysterious nodding."
That night, she stood at the back of the small venue, dressed in a dark turtleneck and jeans, her hair in a loose braid. She blended in, just the way she liked. The stage was lit by a single spotlight. Folding chairs lined the room, most filled with strangers.
Raka was up front, laughing with his friends. But every few minutes, he'd glance back at her, and every time, she'd nod. That was enough.
Someone recited poetry. Another sang a mellow acoustic song about loss. A third person stood up and performed a spoken word piece about anxiety so raw, Nayla felt it vibrating in her ribs.
Then, in the middle of the evening, the host called, "Up next, Raka."
Her head snapped up.
He hadn't told her he was performing.
He stepped on stage with his usual confidence but looked nervous nervous in a way she'd never seen before. He adjusted the mic and cleared his throat.
"So, uh… I don't usually do this," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I wrote something. It's not a song or a poem. It's more like… a letter. To someone who probably hates public declarations."
Some people chuckled.
But Nayla froze.
"I've been learning lately," he said, "that love doesn't always show up in loud ways. Sometimes it shows up in someone sitting quietly beside you, choosing to stay even when they're afraid. This is for her."
He pulled out a folded paper from his pocket.
As he read, Nayla listened.
It wasn't flowery. It wasn't dramatic. It was simple.
Honest.
He spoke about slow mornings and quiet nights. About waffles and sarcasm. About the way her silence was never empty about how she made him feel seen without having to earn it.
The final line stayed with her long after he left the stage:
"She may not say much, but when she says she cares, you never forget how it sounds."
The audience applauded.
Nayla didn't move.
He'd just read her out loud.
And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, she felt understood.
After the show, he found her near the exit, looking like she was trying not to bolt.
"I didn't warn you," he said sheepishly. "I'm sorry."
"You meant it?" she asked, voice low.
"Every word."
She looked at him, heart thudding.
"Raka… you make me want to be brave."
He tilted his head. "You already are."
"I want to be brave out loud," she said. "Like you."
He stepped closer. "So say something."
"I love you."
The words came out shaky. Not perfect.
But hers.
Real.
Raka didn't laugh. Didn't make it a joke.
He pulled her into a hug so firm it nearly knocked the breath out of her.
"I love you, too," he said.
And for the first time, Nayla wasn't afraid of being seen.
She was proud of it.