The rain outside Dimas's window had stopped, leaving the night unusually quiet. The streets of Kalimantan shimmered with leftover puddles reflecting orange streetlights. Inside his dim room, he sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, phone warm in his hand.
He had just sent Ayana a voice message. Not with words—again—but with sound.
Crickets chirping. A far-off muezzin's call echoing through the humid air. The sound of his pen scratching paper.
> Ayana:
"You always send sound instead of your voice. Why?"
He hesitated.
His thumb hovered over the mic button for longer than it should have.
> Dimas:
"Maybe I'm afraid my voice will break the image you have of me."
On the other side of the world, Ayana was curled up on her window seat, her shawl wrapped tight around her arms. Her room was filled with the scent of turmeric and old books. Tamil music played faintly from the kitchen—her mother was still awake.
She read his message three times before replying.
> Ayana:
"Or maybe you're afraid your voice will make you too real."
Dimas exhaled. Slowly.
> Dimas:
"Yeah. Maybe that."
---
Their conversations had grown deeper. But so had the silence between lines.
Not uncomfortable silence—just the kind that made them wonder if they were about to cross a line neither of them had drawn clearly.
That night, Ayana typed a question she'd been avoiding for days.
> Ayana:
"What do you look like?"
The second she sent it, she regretted it.
Not because she didn't want to know.
But because she didn't want to need to know.
Dimas saw the message just as he was about to set his phone down.
He blinked.
Read it again.
And again.
Then he smiled—bittersweet.
> Dimas:
"I'm not sure anymore. Every time I look in the mirror, I feel like I see less and less of myself."
That wasn't the answer she expected.
But it made her chest ache a little.
She started typing.
Then deleted.
Then typed again.
> Ayana:
"I think I know what you mean. I look in the mirror and see everything people have told me to hate."
A long pause.
> Dimas:
"That's... heavy. I'm sorry."
> Ayana:
"Don't be. It's just true. I don't like photos. I don't post selfies. I've never thought I was pretty."
> Dimas:
"I've never even seen you, and I think you are."
She blinked at the screen.
Her fingers shook just a little.
Was it stupid to feel warm reading that? Probably.
But it didn't feel like a flirt.
It felt like comfort.
She took a breath.
> Ayana:
"You don't even know me."
> Dimas:
"Don't I?"
> Ayana:
"Not really. You don't know my real name. Or what school I go to. Or what my handwriting looks like. You've never even heard my voice."
Another pause.
> Dimas:
"I know how you react when a character dies. I know which chapter you read twice because you loved the way I wrote a sunset. I know your silence at 2 a.m. says more than your words at 9 p.m."
She didn't respond for a long time.
Then:
> Ayana:
"That's either really poetic or really dangerous."
> Dimas:
"Can't it be both?"
---
The next evening, Ayana sat at her school library during lunch break, earbuds in, re-listening to the ocean sound he'd sent last week. She stared at the message history, thinking of how easy it would be to say:
"Send me a photo."
"Tell me your real name."
"Let's call, just once."
But with every sentence like that came another kind of fear.
What if the real Dimas wasn't who she imagined?
What if the person behind MidnightPages looked at her and thought she wasn't enough?
Because Ayana knew herself too well.
She wasn't a stunning girl with big eyes and a soft voice.
She was quiet. Short-tempered when nervous.
She bit her nails when stressed and wore the same cardigan three times a week.
She didn't want to ruin whatever this was… just because reality came knocking.
So instead, she typed:
> Ayana:
"If this was a novel, would we meet in the final chapter?"
Dimas saw the message as he sat at a warung kopi, waiting for rain to stop.
> Dimas:
"Maybe. Or maybe we'd never meet. Maybe the beauty of the story is that we stay ink on each other's screens forever."
> Ayana:
"You always write like that."
> Dimas:
"Like what?"
> Ayana:
"Like you're hiding something inside the poetry."
That hit harder than she meant it to.
And somehow, he didn't deflect this time.
> Dimas:
"Maybe because I am."
---
That night, Dimas couldn't sleep. Not because of Ayana's words, but because of what he was starting to feel.
This wasn't just a passing interaction.
Not anymore.
He'd caught himself checking her message timestamp more than once a day.
He'd opened old drafts of his writing and rewrote them with her in mind.
He'd even started a new piece titled "The Girl Who Reads in Silence."
Was it real?
Whatever this was?
Or was he just projecting feelings into a glow of pixels and poetry?
He picked up his phone and typed a single message.
> Dimas:
"Would you want to hear my voice?"
---
Ayana stared at the message for five full minutes.
Her heart beat too loud for her to think.
She didn't know the answer.
Yes, she did.
She wanted to hear it.
She just didn't want to need to hear it.
> Ayana:
"I do. But I'm afraid it'll change things."
> Dimas:
"Me too."
> Ayana:
"Then maybe… not yet."
> Dimas:
"Okay. Not yet."
---
And just like that, the conversation quieted.
But the silence wasn't empty this time.
It was full.
Of almosts.
Of not yets.
Of something blooming slowly in the darkness.
They stayed awake a little longer.
Staring at their screens.
Saying nothing.
But somehow, still speaking.