He stared at the screen like it held the answers to questions he hadn't even learned to ask.
The notification blinked softly:
"Then… maybe you found me too."
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest. He had spent countless nights writing words that felt too heavy to share, stories that no one would read. And yet, here was someone—someone real—who not only read them but understood them.
He typed carefully, choosing each word like a delicate thread:
"Maybe I have… but maybe you've found more than just me. You've found the part of me I hide."
He paused, his thumb hovering above Send. He had never let anyone in like this before. Not in school. Not in life. Writing had been his safe space, a world where nobody could judge him for thinking too much or feeling too deeply. Now, those boundaries were blurring, and he didn't know whether to feel terrified or alive.
A soft vibration alerted him to her reply:
"I think… that's exactly why I commented. I wanted to find someone who knows how it feels to be… invisible."
Invisible. That single word made him pause. It was the very feeling he carried through every hallway, every class, every day. He imagined her—he didn't know what she looked like—sitting quietly somewhere, staring at a phone screen, feeling the same way he did.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The bedroom around him was messy, books and notebooks scattered like tiny islands of his thoughts. He had always thought he was alone, that nobody could truly understand the quiet spaces inside him. And yet, here she was, bridging that distance with a few lines of typed words.
He typed again, slower this time:
"I don't know your name. I don't know your face. But I know that when I read your words, I feel less invisible. Maybe we're less invisible together."
Her reply came almost instantly:
"I think… I like that. I think I want to know the person behind these words too."
He smiled, a faint, almost shy smile that he could feel in his chest more than on his face.
He leaned forward and began typing again:
"Then let's take it slow. Let's just… talk. Share pieces of ourselves. No names yet. No faces. Just words."
"I can do that," she replied.
And so, the two strangers began to build something that felt fragile, yet unbreakable—a bridge of words stretched across invisible lines, connecting hearts without ever revealing who they truly were.
Meanwhile, the quiet boy moved through the hallways of his school the next day, unnoticed by almost everyone. He carried a notebook full of stories and secrets, yet no one saw him, no one asked about him. And yet, somewhere in the same city, a girl sat at her desk, unaware that the boy whose words she adored was passing by in real life.
He didn't know her name. She didn't know his. Yet their lives had intertwined in a space far removed from the noise of classrooms and hallways. They were two invisible souls, finally being seen.
A soft ping interrupted his thoughts. Another message:
"Do you ever feel like words are safer than people?"
He smiled to himself.
"Every day," he typed back. "But maybe some words can lead us to people worth trusting."
And for the first time, he allowed himself to imagine that the person behind the screen—this mysterious, quiet, understanding girl—might be that person.
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