Ayana didn't know when it started.
Maybe it was two weeks ago, when she stayed up an hour past midnight just to refresh the WebNovel app. Or maybe it was last Sunday, when she skipped her usual walk with Appa just so she wouldn't miss an upload.
Either way, the ritual had quietly planted itself into her everyday life. Like brushing her teeth. Like the way she folded her bedsheets or stirred her tea—except this was different.
This felt like waiting for someone.
The screen of her phone glowed softly against her cheek as she lay on her side, eyes focused on the familiar username at the top of the chapter.
DimAndWords.
He'd updated. Again. On time, as always.
Ayana smiled, a soft curl of the lips that no one would ever see. She tapped on the new chapter title—Winds Don't Ask Permission—and dove in. Her heart felt lighter already.
---
Thousands of miles away in Kalimantan, Dimas sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor. His desk was a mess—laptop, empty glasses, sticky notes, and a box of forgotten donuts his cousin had brought over yesterday.
But his eyes were focused only on one thing: the comment section of his latest chapter.
He never used to care much about feedback. Sure, the stars, the "Wow!" reacts, and the occasional "Update soon pls" were nice—but lately, there was one comment that he always looked for. One name, or rather, the lack of it.
(anonymousbird).
She—or whoever this person was—never left more than two or three sentences. But the way those sentences were written, so carefully worded, so... gentle, always struck a chord in Dimas.
He scrolled slowly, like unwrapping a gift.
> "It feels like you wrote this for someone who's afraid to be seen. Thank you." — anonymousbird
His lips parted slightly. It was there. Again.
And somehow, it made his chest feel warm. No, more than warm. It felt understood.
---
Ayana stared at the "Thank you for reading!" message at the end of the chapter. Her thumb hovered over the comment box. She had never been one to speak much in class, and commenting online wasn't too different. But with this writer—this Dimas—words came easier.
As if he'd opened a door she didn't know she had.
She began typing.
> "You write sadness the way some people write music. I hope you're okay, whoever you are."
She hit "Post" before she could think twice.
Then turned off her phone. Then turned it back on. Then checked if the comment posted.
It had.
She clutched her blanket tighter, heart drumming faster than it should. It wasn't just about the story anymore. It was about... him.
Who are you, Dimas?
---
Dimas read the new comment once, then twice.
Then three times.
He didn't reply, of course. He rarely did. Something about this felt too fragile to touch. But he opened his notes app and typed out something anyway:
> "You read my sadness like it's a language you've spoken all your life."
He didn't post it. He just saved it in a folder titled "Unsent Replies."
There were five notes in there now.
All of them inspired by anonymousbird.
He shut the app and opened his draft document. The cursor blinked at him. Chapter 37 wasn't going to write itself.
But suddenly, he found himself backspacing the entire first paragraph.
And starting with a new line:
> "Some storms don't roar. Some just pass silently, changing everything they touch."
He wasn't sure why he wrote that.
Or maybe he was.
---
At school, Ayana's friends noticed she smiled more lately. Not big smiles, just small ones that looked like secrets pressed into her lips.
"You okay?" one of them asked during lunch.
"Yeah," Ayana said. "Just... reading something nice."
They didn't press. They never did. That was the thing about having quiet friends—they didn't force open doors. They waited for you to invite them in.
Ayana liked that.
But a part of her, the smallest part, wondered what kind of friends Dimas had. If he had people who noticed when he looked tired. If he laughed easily. If he'd ever had his heart broken.
She wished she could ask.
---
That night, while Ayana was brushing her teeth, her phone buzzed with a notification.
> 📥 DimAndWords has updated: "Chapter 37 – The Storm Doesn't Roar"
Her eyes widened.
Was it her imagination, or...?
No. It couldn't be.
She opened the chapter.
And read the first line.
> "Some storms don't roar. Some just pass silently, changing everything they touch."
Her toothbrush froze mid-air.
She reread it. Once. Twice.
There was no way—right?
But her heart whispered otherwise.
---
Dimas clicked "publish" and leaned back. He stared at the night outside his window. The quiet hum of cicadas filled the dark.
In his heart, he hoped the girl with the soft words saw it.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Or maybe it was the start of something neither of them could name yet.
But it was there now.
A string.
Thin. Invisible.
Stretching across oceans, anchored by silence—and stories.