When I reached home, as I expected, I got the message again.
He was finding new ways to talk to me — commenting on my statuses, replying to my profile pictures — like it was his secret way of expressing thoughts he couldn't say directly.
One evening, I clicked a photo of the sky. It wasn't that good, honestly, but I still posted it.
"Nice photo," he texted. "I thought you didn't take good pictures."
"Uh, not better than yours," I replied.
He sent me a few of his own photos and explained how he clicked them, reminding me not to zoom too much.
I listened to him more carefully than I ever listened to my teachers.
We spent hours talking about photography — angles, light, colors, and how a small shift in focus could change the whole picture. Later that day, I went outside and spent an hour trying to capture a perfect shot — just like he'd taught me.
When I sent him the photo, he was shocked that I got it right on the first try.
"I guess your teacher is so good," he said, clearly complimenting himself.
"I guess that too," I replied, jokingly.
That night, our chat stretched longer than usual. The clock ticked quietly past 10:30, but neither of us seemed ready to end it.
We kept sending random pictures — of the moon, of half-finished homework, of messy desks — and somehow, every picture turned into a conversation that didn't want to end.
"Guess who's still awake even though we both have school tomorrow?" he texted.
"Guess who started the chat first?" I replied.
He sent a laughing emoji, followed by, "Touché. Okay, okay, guilty."
There was a pause — not the awkward kind, but the soft kind that feels safe. Then his next message popped up:
"You know, I like talking to you. You actually engage in the conversation… not just reply."
My heart did a full-on gymnastic routine. It wasn't a flirty line — it was honest. Gentle. Like he'd been holding it in for a while.
"Maybe because the conversation's worth engaging in," I typed back before instantly regretting how genuine it sounded.
He replied with a small smile emoji — the kind that doesn't say much but somehow says everything.
"You're different," he added after a minute. "Not everyone listens like you do."
I didn't reply right away. I just stared at the screen, my brain melting and my cheeks hurting from smiling too much.
"It's 10:55," I finally texted, trying to sound normal. "We'll both look like zombies tomorrow."
He sent a sleepy emoji. "Fine, I'll sleep. But promise you'll click another sky picture tomorrow?"
"Only if you rate it honestly."
"Deal," he wrote. "Good night, sweet dreams."
I smiled at the screen. "Good night, sleep well."
And just like that, the chat ended. But sleep didn't come easily. I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying every message, every line, every dot, dot, dot, typing moment.
It wasn't love — not yet — but it was something that made ordinary nights feel a little less ordinary.
I sighed and got up to put my phone on charge. As I stepped out, I heard my father's voice from the living room — low and tired.
"She's been staying up late these days. I don't know what she keeps doing at night."
My mother said something I couldn't catch, but the guilt in her tone was enough.
I quickly walked upstairs before they could notice me. When my mother called my name, I lied — told them I needed to study more since I didn't get enough time in school. They nodded, believing me.
But the lie sat heavy in my chest. I wasn't staying up for studies. I was staying up for him.
I closed my door and leaned against it, the quiet pressing around me. I hated lying, but I couldn't tell them the truth. Not after what happened with Abhi. That whole situation had left a mark — too much drama, too many questions, too much judgment.
Since then, I've stopped mentioning my male friends altogether. Not because I don't trust my parents… but because I don't want to invite another storm.
So now, I protect him. I protect the others. And maybe, in some twisted way, I protect myself too.
I sat on my bed, phone beside me, his messages still open. The blue light flickered softly on my face.
"You actually engage," he'd said.
And somehow, that one line made every small lie, every quiet guilt, and every late-night risk feel worth it.