Jacob didn’t notice when it started either.
If someone asked him later, he wouldn’t be able to point to a moment and say, there—right there—that’s when it changed. It felt too ordinary for that. Too harmless. Just conversations filling the quiet spaces of his day.
He liked talking to her. That was all. At least, that’s what he told himself.
Amaya was easy in a way that didn’t demand effort. He didn’t feel the need to impress her or perform some version of himself that sounded better than the truth. With her, he could just exist—and somehow, that felt enough.
Their chats had rhythm now.
He’d text her during breaks without thinking twice. If she replied quickly, he smiled. If she didn’t, he told himself she was busy—no pressure, no irritation. He liked that about her. The way she never made him feel obligated, even when he wanted to stay.
Their conversations were mostly nonsense.
Teach me Telugu, he’d typed one evening.
Why? she asked.
So I can scold you properly.
She sent a laughing emoji.
First lesson: don’t try.
Second lesson?
You’ll fail anyway.
He laughed out loud at that, the sound surprising even himself.
She taught him small words—everyday ones. He repeated them terribly on purpose, just to annoy her.
Adi enti?
That’s not how you say it!
This is how I say it.
She threatened to block him at least twice a day. She never did.
He taught her Malayalam in return—words that sounded softer when she said them, slightly wrong but endearing. He corrected her gently, enjoying the way she tried again, determined to get it right.
You’re saying it like Telugu with confidence, he teased.
Confidence matters, she shot back. Pronunciation is optional.
They laughed a lot. More than he expected.
Some nights, they shared voice notes just to hear each other mispronounce words. Other nights, they sent songs—arguing playfully over lyrics, translating lines, missing meanings entirely and making up better ones.
Jacob found himself waiting.
Waiting for her replies.
Waiting to tell her small things—how the rain started suddenly, how he burned his tea, how a random thought reminded him of something she’d said days ago.
That realization unsettled him.
He had friends. He had a life. And yet, her absence in the chat box felt louder than it should have.
He didn’t overthink it. Jacob rarely did.
Instead, he leaned into the comfort. Into the way conversations stretched without effort. Into the familiar greeting that now felt strange when missing.
You disappeared, he messaged once.
Relax, I have a life, she replied.
Rude.
Truthful.
He smiled at his phone longer than necessary.
He liked that she didn’t pretend. That she was warm without being overly available. That she laughed freely but guarded herself just enough to remain a mystery.
Sometimes, when the chats slowed, he wondered if she felt it too—that quiet pull, that sense of something forming without permission. He never asked. He never crossed that line.
Not yet.
Jacob believed in letting things happen naturally. He trusted time. Trusted that if something was meant to be said, it would surface on its own.
But even as he told himself that, his actions said otherwise.
He checked his phone one last time before sleeping.
Typed Good night even when he didn’t usually.
Felt a small, unreasonable relief when she replied with Sweet dreams.
He didn’t call it attachment.
Didn’t call it anything at all.
He just knew that somewhere between laughter, shared words, and learning each other’s languages, Amaya had begun to matter more than he’d planned.
And that was the dangerous part.
Because once someone mattered, they didn’t leave quietly.
Jacob closed his eyes that night unaware of how deep he’d already stepped in—unaware that what felt light and playful now would soon demand honesty, clarity, and choices he hadn’t prepared himself to make.
For now, it was easy.
And easy things, he would learn, were the hardest to let go of.
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