Raka had always loved words.
He wielded them like a musician playful when he teased, tender when he comforted, loud when he wanted to make her laugh. With Raka, words were like color. Bright, vivid, and sometimes overwhelming.
Nayla, on the other hand, lived in between the lines.
She loved words too, but hers were quiet, tucked into journals, whispered into late-night phone calls, or typed and deleted five times before sending.
They were speaking two languages of love.
And yet, somehow, they always understood each other.
—
That Sunday, it started with a fight.
Well, not a fight. A miscommunication. The kind of thing couples shrug off on Instagram but feel like hurricanes in real life.
It started because Raka had posted a group picture from a friend's birthday.
He was beside a girl, someone Nayla didn't know.
The girl had her hand on his arm. Innocent, probably. But not invisible.
Nayla didn't say anything right away. She just grew quiet.
And Raka, in typical Raka fashion, noticed.
"What's going on?" he asked that night when they were curled up in her apartment, his head on her lap and her fingers half-heartedly scrolling through her phone.
"Nothing," she said.
He sat up. "That's code for 'something.' Come on."
She hesitated.
"Who's the girl in the photo?"
He blinked. "Tasha? A friend from college. She came with someone else. Why?"
"She looked... comfortable."
Raka studied her. "You think I'd do something?"
"No," she said quickly. "It's not that. I just" She stopped, unsure how to say it.
"I didn't grow up with a lot of security," she whispered. "When something feels too good, I look for the cracks before they can break me."
His face softened. "Nayla... you're not something I tolerate. You're someone I chose."
"I know," she said. "But sometimes my brain needs more proof than my heart does."
He nodded, scooting closer. "Then let me translate."
He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one.
"This?" he said, "means I'm with you."
Another kiss. "This means I respect you."
Another. "This means I see you."
And finally, one kiss was placed in her palm. "And this? This means I'm not going anywhere."
She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm multilingual in love," he replied with a grin.
She laughed, despite herself.
They didn't fix everything that night. Old fears don't vanish with poetic kisses.
But something changed.
She started telling him more. Not just with words, but in ways he could read.
He started listening differently. Slower. More patient.
Love, they learned, wasn't about volume.
It was about translation.
Learning how the other said "I'm scared" without saying it. Learning when silence meant comfort, and when it meant fear. Learning to decode gestures, coffee brewed without asking, forehead kisses before work, and saved last bites of dessert.
They would keep learning.
Because real love wasn't always fluent.
But it was willing.
And that was enough.