The night came faster than usual.
Aira lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The familiar hum of the fan above her did nothing to calm the storm inside her chest. Revan's words kept echoing in her mind.
> "You wrote me too well to be innocent."
She didn't know what scared her more—that he had read her story, or that he had seen her in it.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard again. She wanted to write. That was how she processed everything—through metaphors, monologues, pain wrapped in pretty sentences.
But tonight, the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she opened her inbox.
There it was. Another message from him.
> Revan_X: I wasn't lying. We have unfinished stories. And you know it, too.
She clicked into the chat before she could stop herself.
> Aira (BlueSky): Why do you care?
The reply came almost instantly.
> Revan_X: Because you're not the only one hiding behind fiction.
She stared at the screen. Her heartbeat skipped.
Was he... confessing something?
Then, another message appeared.
> Revan_X: Meet me at the rooftop. Tomorrow. 5 p.m.
Aira hesitated. It was risky. Crazy, even.
But her fingers moved anyway.
> Aira: Fine.
She didn't understand him. He had every chance to ruin her. Yet he didn't. He seemed obsessed, but not in the way boys usually acted. Not loud. Not possessive. More like... haunted.
And that made her curious.
---
The rooftop was bathed in the golden glow of sunset. The wind was gentle, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet.
Aira pushed open the door, half-expecting he wouldn't be there.
But he was.
Leaning on the railing, looking out at the horizon like a prince out of place.
"You came," he said without turning.
"You asked," she replied.
He finally looked at her. For once, his expression wasn't smug. It was... tired.
"I used to write too," he said.
That caught her off guard. "You?"
He nodded. "Before everything. Before the rumors. Before I became whatever everyone thinks I am now."
She didn't know what to say. Revan—the boy every girl wanted, the one with perfect grades and perfect charm—used to write?
"I stopped," he added. "Because when I wrote the truth, people laughed. When I wrote fiction, people asked if it was about them. I couldn't win."
Aira stepped closer. "So why read mine?"
He turned to her, gaze piercing.
"Because your words didn't lie. You wrote monsters and dreams and broken boys and girls trying to breathe. And I felt like... you saw me."
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because in that moment, she realized something terrifying.
She had never wanted to be seen.
But now that she was, she couldn't look away.