Nayla stared at the message for a full minute before responding.
"Hey, I'm throwing a birthday dinner this Saturday. Just a few people. You should come."— Raka
It was simple. Casual. No pressure in the wording. And yet, her heart thudded against her ribs like it had read something far more intense.
She reread it three times. Then locked her phone. Then unlocked it again.
This was new. Not just new, but vulnerable. Social events weren't her thing. Parties, even small ones, drained her. She could do one onone with Raka, even his friends, in low doses, but being in a room where people would ask her questions, expect her to talk, smile, laugh on cue…
She almost typed out "Sorry, I can't".
Almost.
But then she remembered the night he stayed. The toast he made. The way he looked at her was like she was worth the slow effort of learning.
So she replied:
"Okay. I'll come."
He texted back almost immediately:
"You just made my birthday already better."
Saturday came too quickly.
She spent the afternoon overthinking her outfit, pacing her room, and practicing small talk in her head. Raka had told her it'd just be at his apartment—his closest friends, nothing fancy. But that didn't stop the storm in her chest.
When she arrived, the door opened before she could knock.
"You came," he said, genuinely surprised and happy.
"You invited me."
"You said yes."
She stepped inside, where warm lights hung above a table set for eight. Music played softly, something acoustic and cheerful. Laughter floated from the living room where three of his friends were already talking over drinks.
Nayla smiled tightly. "Don't let me ruin your vibe."
"You're part of the vibe," he said, and gently touched her elbow. "Come, I want to introduce you."
He kept it easy.
Instead of a dramatic "This is Nayla," he casually said, "Hey guys, this is who I've been texting like a maniac lately."
The room laughed, and somehow, Nayla did too.
His friends were kind. Curious, but not invasive. One asked about books. Another offered her wine. Someone mentioned her earrings were cute, and Nayla found herself saying thank you without instinctively shrinking.
Throughout dinner, Raka stayed close, not clingy, but attentive. Their knees brushed under the table. His hand would rest near hers, but never push. When she didn't speak, he filled the silence with ease. When she did speak, he looked at her like every word mattered.
Later in the evening, after the cake and laughter, after the music turned into soft background noise, Raka walked her to the balcony where the air was cooler, quieter.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded, looking out at the city lights. "I am. More than I thought I'd be."
"I'm proud of you for coming."
She smiled. "I almost didn't."
"I know. That's why I'm even more proud."
She turned to him. "Thank you for making space for me. Even when I take up less of it than most people."
"You take up the exact right amount," he said. "For me, at least."
And somehow, that one sentence wrapped around her heart like a soft blanket.
Maybe birthdays weren't just about candles and cake.
Maybe they were about realizing who made you feel like you belonged, even when you thought you didn't.