It had only been two days.
Two days since the birthday dinner, two days since Nayla had sat quietly beside Raka while his friends laughed around them, two days since she caught herself feeling… not out of place.
But when Tuesday rolled around and Raka didn't message her until late, a strange ache settled in her chest.
She knew he was busy. He'd mentioned a work deadline. Still, her fingers hovered over her phone more than she liked to admit.
At 10:43 PM, a message finally lit up her screen:
"Today was hell. Can I call you tomorrow? Just need to pass out."
Short. Honest. Him.
She stared at it for a moment, then typed:
"Rest. I missed you today."
Then she froze.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
Was it too much?
Too soon?
Too soft?
She'd never said anything like that before. Not even in the longest of her almost-relationships. Vulnerability was a room she rarely unlocked, and not without a script.
But this time… she pressed send.
No overthinking. No deleting. Just let it go.
The read receipt popped up immediately.
Then three blinking dots.
Then a reply:
"That made my whole day. I missed you, too, Nay."
She exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.
The next morning, he showed up outside her apartment with two coffees and tired eyes.
"I know I said I'd call," he said, handing her the warm cup, "but I missed you in 3D."
She laughed. "You look like you lost a fight with your laptop."
"I won, technically," he said, stepping inside. "But the victory came at the cost of my soul."
She sat beside him on the couch, their knees touching again, naturally now.
"Thanks for the message last night," he said, his voice quieter. "I needed that."
"I almost didn't send it," she admitted.
"Why not?"
"Because saying 'I miss you' sounds more serious than I'm used to."
"It is serious," he said. "But it doesn't have to be scary."
She looked at him, the way his exhaustion softened the lines of his face, the way he still showed up despite needing sleep.
"You missed me in 3D?" she teased, sipping her coffee.
"I miss you in every dimension," he replied, smirking.
She chuckled, but something warm bloomed in her chest.
Later, as he dozed off on her couch, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, she watched him sleep and realized something quietly terrifying:
She was letting him in.
Not just the curated, low-risk version of her.
The real her.
And somehow, instead of fear, it brought a strange sense of peace.
She reached for her phone and typed out a note she wouldn't send:
"You're the first person I've missed without resenting it."
She stared at it for a while, then saved it in drafts.
She wasn't ready to say everything yet.
But she was getting closer.
And in her world, that was already a kind of miracle.