Raka paced inside his apartment, rereading her text for the third time.
"Okay."
That was it. No context. No emoji. Just "okay."
He typed out a reply, deleted it, and threw himself onto the couch.
It wasn't that Nayla was mean. She didn't ghost him, didn't ignore him completely. She just… never said more than necessary. And when she did say something, it was clipped and cold, like she was being polite only because she had to.
Still, she kept agreeing to meet. That had to count for something, right?
They met again that weekend, sitting side by side at the botanical garden, where she liked to sketch people. She didn't tell him she sketched he found out by accident when her pencil dropped and he saw the open notebook.
"You're good," he said, surprised. "Why don't you post these anywhere?"
She shrugged. "They're not for everyone."
He leaned closer, admiring the light strokes. "So who are they for?"
Another shrug. "Me."
And then, softly: "And maybe you."
Raka looked at her, but her eyes stayed on the page. He wanted to ask what that meant; was she drawing for him? Thinking of him? but he didn't. Not yet.
Later, as they walked back toward the city bus, he finally asked the question that had been eating at him.
"Do you not like chatting?"
She blinked, as if she didn't expect the question. "I don't like pretending to care when I'm tired."
"But you care?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
That was her version of affection, minimalist, stripped down, impossible to misread. It startled him, honestly. The way she could be blunt but not brutal.
"So, this isn't nothing to you?" he asked, heart tapping faster.
She looked at him and said, "If it were nothing, you'd be a message I never answered."