Purity Osinachi stared at her phone like it held some secret she wasn't ready to uncover.
The notification glowed softly on the screen:
"I didn't think anyone would understand it like this. Thank you for seeing me."
Her chest tightened. Seeing her? No. Seeing her words, she corrected silently.
She didn't know who the writer was. She didn't know his name, his age, or even what he looked like. And yet, the words felt alive, almost like a heartbeat she could feel through the screen.
Purity's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to respond, wanted to say something that made her presence real without giving too much away. But she hesitated.
Why am I so nervous? she wondered.
After a long pause, she typed carefully:
"I… I just think your words matter. They feel real. Thank you for sharing them."
She stared at the message. Her thumb trembled above the Send button. Finally, after a moment that felt like a lifetime, she pressed it.
Almost immediately, the screen refreshed.
"You're welcome. I didn't expect anyone to notice. You're… different."
Purity swallowed. Different? Different meant brave, in her mind. Different meant willing to speak when silence was safer.
She looked around her room, suddenly aware of the quiet hum of the evening. Her parents were out, her siblings asleep. The world was still. Only the soft glow of her phone kept her company.
A small smile tugged at her lips. She had never left comments on stories before. She had always read silently, hiding behind the comfort of observation. She didn't know why this time was different. Maybe it was the honesty of the words. Maybe it was the feeling that the person behind them understood what she had never been able to say.
Purity glanced at her desk, where her school notebook lay open, half-filled with doodles and notes she would never show anyone. For the first time, she imagined scribbling a message on paper and sliding it across the classroom to someone who could feel the same way she did. The thought made her heart beat faster.
The writer's next message appeared:
"Do you… want to read the next part?"
Purity blinked. She hesitated, wondering if saying yes would cross some invisible line. But curiosity, and something deeper, pushed her fingers to reply:
"Yes."
And just like that, the story continued.
The next post was longer than the first, more intimate. The anonymous writer described a quiet boy at school who felt unseen, who moved through classrooms like a shadow, carrying stories that no one noticed. Purity's heart tightened. She recognized the feelings—the ache of invisibility, the longing to be understood. But she wondered: could a stranger capture so much without ever seeing her?
She typed a comment before overthinking it.
"It's like you… know what it feels like to be me."
For a moment, there was silence. Then the reply came:
"Maybe I've been invisible too. Maybe I'm looking for someone who notices."
Purity froze. Her chest felt heavy. Someone who notices…
The words resonated with something she had tried to ignore for years—the desire to be seen, not just looked at. She pressed the phone to her chest and let herself breathe. For the first time, the world felt smaller, safer, quieter.
She didn't know who the writer was. She didn't know his voice. She didn't know his face. And yet, in that small corner of the internet, two strangers were no longer alone.
Purity smiled softly, typing one final reply before bedtime:
"Then… maybe you found me too."
She pressed Send, and for the first time in a long while, Purity Osinachi felt like she belonged somewhere.
And somewhere else, a quiet boy stared at his own screen, fingers frozen over the keyboard, realizing that the girl who had never commented before had just changed everything.
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