Ayana didn't sleep much that night. She told herself she would stop reading after just one more chapter—but then she left that comment. And something about it made her feel exposed. Vulnerable. As if she had written a piece of her own heart and posted it in a glass bottle, hoping it would drift across a vast ocean and reach someone who would understand.
The next morning, she stared at her phone before she even got out of bed. She didn't know what she expected—maybe a reply, maybe silence. Either way, it scared her. So she did what she always did when emotions overwhelmed her: she made chai and escaped to the roof.
The early sun of Tamil Nadu painted the buildings in gold and dust. Her neighborhood was waking up slowly—scooters coughing to life, school bells in the distance, a woman calling out about fresh milk in the alley. The world moved around her, and Ayana watched from above, like she was in it but not really part of it.
She opened the app again. No reply.
But weirdly, it didn't hurt.
She reread the chapter. Especially that one line: "Maybe we write to strangers because they're the only ones who really listen."
It echoed in her chest.
Ayana whispered, "You listened."
She didn't know his name. She didn't need to. Whoever this writer was—he had become her invisible friend, the one who wrote words she could never say out loud.
And for now, that was enough.
---
Meanwhile, back in Balikpapan, Dimas sat in the back row of his English class, trying and failing to pay attention. His teacher was talking about persuasive essays, but his mind was still trapped in a comment left by a stranger the night before.
He had read it five times before closing the laptop. He hadn't replied. He wasn't sure if he should. The comment felt sacred, almost too pure for words.
But he couldn't stop thinking about it.
"A Reader Who's Trying to Hold On."
What kind of person signs off like that?
She could be anyone. A student. A tired soul. A dreamer. A ghost behind the screen, just like him.
He glanced out the window. The sky was heavy with clouds—gray and sleepy. Just like him.
When the bell rang, he didn't move. The room emptied around him. His friends called out, "Yo, Dim, come to the kantin?"
He waved them off. "Later."
Instead, he pulled out his phone and opened the writing platform. He clicked on the comment again.
Still no username. Still anonymous.
But this time… he tapped 'Reply.'
His fingers hesitated above the keyboard. Then, slowly, he typed:
> "I don't know who you are either. But thank you—for reading, for feeling, and for holding on. Sometimes, that's all we can do. Keep breathing. Keep hoping. And maybe, keep writing too."
He hovered over the 'send' button.
One second. Two.
Then: click.
It was out there now.
He leaned back, heart pounding slightly. It wasn't much. Just a reply. But somehow, it felt like the beginning of something.
---
That evening, Ayana checked her phone again. Not out of hope—just habit.
Then she saw it.
[1 Reply on your comment – Chapter 38]
Her heart jumped.
She tapped it.
> "I don't know who you are either. But thank you—for reading, for feeling, and for holding on. Sometimes, that's all we can do. Keep breathing. Keep hoping. And maybe, keep writing too."
She read it once.
Then again.
Then once more, like it might disappear.
A slow smile tugged at her lips. Not wide. Not dramatic. Just soft—real.
He replied.
He read her words. He heard her.
And just like that, a string was tied between them.
She didn't reply immediately. She didn't even know what to say. How do you answer something that feels like a whisper in the dark? A lifeline?
Instead, she bookmarked the reply, saved it, then copied the sentence "Keep breathing. Keep hoping." and pasted it into her journal.
Then, she did something she hadn't done in months:
She opened a blank page and began to write.
Not to publish. Just for herself.
> "Dear Anonymous Writer," she began,
"Today, your words felt like light on the edge of my darkness…"
---
Later that night
Dimas sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, laptop open, the blinking cursor waiting like a dog begging for attention.
But he didn't want to write fiction tonight.
Instead, he opened a new post.
A personal one.
He titled it: "To the Reader Who Commented on Chapter 38"
And he began to type:
> *"I don't usually post things like this. Most of the time, I hide behind my stories. But yesterday, someone left a comment that shook me in a quiet kind of way.
If you're reading this: I don't know your name. I don't know where you live, or what battles you're fighting.
But I hope you know you're not alone.
I hope you keep holding on.
And if these words ever find you again—I hope they make you feel a little less invisible."*
He hit post.
No edits. No filters.
And then he turned off the lights.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like he was shouting into the void. Someone had heard him.
---
Miles away, in another world, Ayana refreshes the app before bed. A new post shows up under the author's profile. She reads the title. Her breath catches.
"To the Reader Who Commented on Chapter 38."
She doesn't click it yet.
She just stares at it, heart pounding.