Chapter 3 Two Lives, One Screen

The anonymous writer stared at the screen like it held answers to questions he hadn't even learned how to ask yet.

The glow from his phone was the only light in the room, casting faint shadows against the walls of his bedroom. Outside, the city hummed softly-distant cars, the occasional bark of a dog, the low murmur of life continuing without him. Inside, everything felt suspended, like time had paused to wait for what he would do next.

The notification blinked softly.

"Then... maybe you found me too."

He read it once.

Then again.

And again.

Each time, the words settled deeper into his chest, blooming into a warmth he didn't quite recognize at first. It wasn't excitement. It wasn't relief. It was something quieter and more dangerous-hope.

He had written so many stories over the years. Late nights filled with thoughts he never said out loud. Characters who carried his fears, his loneliness, his longing. He had posted them anonymously, never expecting more than a few silent readers, maybe a like or two if he was lucky.

But this-

This was different.

This was someone speaking back.

Someone who didn't just read his words but understood them.

He sat up slowly, elbows resting on his knees, and his phone held carefully in both hands like something fragile. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertainty creeping in. Words had always come easily to him when he wrote stories. But now, these weren't fictional characters. This was a real person. Somewhere. Someone who could be hurt. Someone who could leave.

He typed carefully, deleting and retyping until the words felt honest enough to survive being seen.

"Maybe I have... but maybe you've found more than just me. You've found the part of me I hide."

He stopped.

Read it again.

His chest tightened.

That was more true than he usually allowed anyone. Even strangers.

His thumb hovered above "Send."

He thought about all the times he had swallowed his thoughts in class. All the moments he had wanted to speak but convinced himself it didn't matter. All the ways he had learned to disappear quietly because being invisible hurt less than being rejected.

Finally, he pressed Send.

The message vanished into the digital void, carrying a piece of him with it.

For a moment, nothing happened.

His heart beat louder in the silence.

Then his phone vibrated.

"I think... that's exactly why I commented. I wanted to find someone who knows how it feels to be... invisible."

Invisible.

The word struck him harder than he expected.

He leaned back against his chair, exhaling slowly as memories flooded in uninvited. Sitting at the back of classrooms. Teachers forgetting his name. Group projects where no one chose him until there were no other options left. Friends who weren't really friends-just people who tolerated his presence.

Invisible wasn't just a feeling.

It was a way of existing.

He imagined her for the first time-not clearly, not physically, but emotionally. A girl somewhere, maybe curled up on her bed or sitting at a desk, phone in hand, staring at the same glowing screen. Feeling the same quiet ache. Carrying the same unspoken thoughts.

He typed again, slower now, more deliberately.

"I don't know your name. I don't know your face. But when I read your words, I feel less invisible. Maybe we're less invisible together."

He swallowed after sending it.

He didn't know why that sentence scared him so much.

Maybe because it implied connection.

And connection meant risk.

Her reply came quickly.

"I think... I like that. I think I want to know the person behind these words, too."

He smiled.

It was small and instinctive, a smile that didn't quite reach his face but settled warmly in his chest instead. He couldn't remember the last time someone had said they wanted to know him.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, phone close to his face as he typed again.

"Then let's take it slow. Let's just... talk. Share pieces of ourselves. No names yet. No faces. Just words."

There was a pause.

Long enough for doubt to creep in.

Then-

"I can do that."

Something inside him shifted.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just enough to change the shape of his loneliness.

The next morning, the quiet boy blended into the stream of students entering the school gates.

Saint Agnes High was already alive with noise-laughter echoing down hallways, footsteps rushing across tiled floors, voices overlapping in endless conversation. He walked through it all like a shadow, backpack slung over one shoulder, notebook tucked securely under his arm.

No one greeted him.

No one noticed.

And he had learned, over time, how to make peace with that.

He took his usual seat near the back of the classroom, head down as he flipped open his notebook. The margins were filled with half-written thoughts, lines of dialogue, and fragments of stories that made sense only to him.

But today, his mind wasn't fully there.

It was still on the words from the night before.

On her.

He wondered what she was doing right now. Whether she was sitting in a classroom, too, pretending to listen while her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Whether she felt the same strange pull toward a screen that he did.

The teacher began speaking, but the words washed over him.

Instead, he wrote.

Two people. Same city. Same silence. Different screens.

He paused, pen hovering.

What if she's closer than I think?

The thought made his heart stumble.

He shook it off quickly. It was foolish. Romantic. Unrealistic.

And yet-

They talked every night after that.

Not constantly. Not desperately.

Just enough.

Sometimes, it was about writing-why he started, what it felt like to pour himself into words. Sometimes, it was about nothing at all-favorite quiet moments, songs that felt like memories, the comfort of silence.

They never asked for names.

It became an unspoken rule.

One night, she asked:

"Do you ever feel like words are safer than people?"

He smiled at the screen before replying.

"Every day. Words don't leave when they see too much of you."

"But people do," she wrote.

He hesitated.

Then typed:

"Maybe some words can lead us to people worth trusting."

He didn't know why he said it.

Maybe because he wanted it to be true.

Days passed.

At school, he noticed things he hadn't before.

Like the girl who sat two rows ahead of him in English class. Quiet. Observant. Always writing something in her notebook. She never raised her hand, never interrupted, but when the teacher read out a particularly insightful answer, it was often hers.

He didn't know her name.

He didn't think much of her at first.

Until one day, as she stood to hand in an assignment, a loose page slipped from her notebook and landed near his feet.

He picked it up instinctively.

On it, written in neat handwriting, were the words:

Some people speak best in silence.

His breath caught.

That line-

It felt familiar.

Too familiar.

He returned the page without saying anything, their fingers brushing briefly as she took it back. She murmured a quiet "thank you" and hurried away.

He stared after her, heart pounding.

Coincidence, he told himself.

It had to be.

That night, a message appeared on his screen.

"Do you ever feel like you recognize someone without knowing why?"

His fingers froze.

"Sometimes," he typed carefully. "Why?"

"I don't know," she replied. "It's just a feeling."

He swallowed.

His mind flashed to the girl in class. The handwriting. The silence.

He forced himself to breathe.

"Feelings can be strange," he wrote. "They don't always make sense right away."

"Maybe they will someday," she replied.

He stared at the screen long after the conversation ended.

Two lives.

One screen.

And a truth slowly inching closer than either of them realized.

Somewhere else, Purity Osinachi lay on her bed, phone pressed lightly to her chest, unaware that the boy whose words made her feel seen walked the same hallways she did every day.

And somewhere between anonymity and reality, something fragile and real was beginning to grow.