Chapter 11 – A Missed Call
Raka stared at the missed call notification from Nayla like it was a glitch. A hallucination. Something his phone had made up in the middle of a quiet evening.
She had never called him before.
Not once.
Nayla wasn't a caller. She was barely even a texter. When they came, her messages always felt like they'd passed through several mental filters, carefully chosen, battle-tested words. Her silences were thoughtful, deliberate. She wasn't cold. Just cautious. A phone call from her didn't just feel intimate, it felt loud in its rarity. Like a flare in the dark.
And now, this? A missed call?
He called her back without thinking.
No answer.
The dial tone ended and was replaced by the stillness of his room. The soft blue glow of the phone felt too harsh against the dim surroundings. He placed it on his chest and stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the silence more than the weight of the device. Every second stretched, long and tense.
Ten minutes later, her message appeared.
"Sorry. That was a mistake."
He blinked. Hesitated. Then typed, slowly:
"Everything okay?"
No reply.
He didn't expect one. Not immediately. He knew her rhythm by now, how she took her time, especially with emotions. He'd learned not to push. Still, concern curled in his chest like a knot tightening.
Just past midnight, when he'd given up on a response, another message buzzed through.
"I wasn't going to say anything. But I had a rough day."
He sat up, the blanket sliding down his arms. His fingers moved gently over the screen.
"Can I ask why?"
The dots indicating she was typing appeared. Then vanished. Then returned.
Finally, the reply came:
"A coworker made a joke about how I'm antisocial. Said it in front of everyone. They laughed. I didn't."
Raka's jaw clenched. He could picture it too easily, Nayla sitting at a meeting table, her expression unreadable, her body stiff. The laughter ricocheting around the room, none of it meant for her. Or worse meant at her.
He typed quickly:
"That's not fair. You're just… reserved. That's not a flaw."
A long pause. Then:
"I know. But sometimes, I wish I could be easier."
His thumbs hovered over the screen, uncertain at first. Then he sent:
"You're not hard. Just honest."
No response came after that. But he didn't take it as rejection.
He knew Nayla.
The next morning, just as sunlight broke through the edges of his curtains, his phone lit up again. This time, it was a photo.
A window. Pale morning light pouring across wooden shelves lined with books. Dust particles suspended in the air, glowing like tiny stars. A quiet kind of beautiful. The kind you only notice when you're still enough to see it.
No caption.
But Raka didn't need one.
He stared at it for a long time, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He imagined her sitting there, phone in hand, seeing the light and thinking of him. He imagined the stillness of her world, and how, in her quiet way, she let him into it.
That photo meant: I saw something warm, and it reminded me of you.
It meant: I'm still here.
And for Raka, that was everything.