I still remember the day we met — not in real life, but through a game, back in 2019.
Who would’ve thought a random teammate in an online match could become someone unforgettable? What started as casual fun slowly turned into something real. Text by text, smile by smile, Ruhi carved her place into my days... and unknowingly, into my heart.
She never spoke a word. Not because she didn’t want to — but because she couldn’t.
Ruhi was deaf.
But you know what? I never felt a single conversation was missing. Her silence had its own voice, and our chats had a rhythm of their own. When we started doing late-night video calls, I’d just watch her smile, laugh with her eyes, and make little gestures that said more than any words ever could.
Those calls? They were everything.
No sound. No noise. Just two souls talking in a language only they understood.
With time, life happened. Schedules clashed. Conversations slowed. We didn’t fight. We didn’t say goodbye. We just... faded.
One night, I sat alone, thinking about her — that quiet girl with the loudest presence. I opened our old chat, heart pounding, and started typing:
“Ruhi, I don’t know if you still think of me. But I think of you sometimes — not with pain, just with warmth. You made silence feel beautiful. You made late nights feel like magic. I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. And if you ever remember me, I hope it makes you smile.”
I read it. Felt it. Then locked the screen.
I didn’t send it.
Some messages aren’t meant to be delivered — they’re meant to be written, to help your heart breathe.
I met Ruhi in a game. But she became one of the most real parts of my life.
And even if she never reads that message, I know one thing:
She heard me — in her own way — all along.
Who would’ve thought a random teammate in an online match could become someone unforgettable? What started as casual fun slowly turned into something real. Text by text, smile by smile, Ruhi carved her place into my days... and unknowingly, into my heart.
She never spoke a word. Not because she didn’t want to — but because she couldn’t.
Ruhi was deaf.
But you know what? I never felt a single conversation was missing. Her silence had its own voice, and our chats had a rhythm of their own. When we started doing late-night video calls, I’d just watch her smile, laugh with her eyes, and make little gestures that said more than any words ever could.
Those calls? They were everything.
No sound. No noise. Just two souls talking in a language only they understood.
With time, life happened. Schedules clashed. Conversations slowed. We didn’t fight. We didn’t say goodbye. We just... faded.
One night, I sat alone, thinking about her — that quiet girl with the loudest presence. I opened our old chat, heart pounding, and started typing:
“Ruhi, I don’t know if you still think of me. But I think of you sometimes — not with pain, just with warmth. You made silence feel beautiful. You made late nights feel like magic. I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. And if you ever remember me, I hope it makes you smile.”
I read it. Felt it. Then locked the screen.
I didn’t send it.
Some messages aren’t meant to be delivered — they’re meant to be written, to help your heart breathe.
I met Ruhi in a game. But she became one of the most real parts of my life.
And even if she never reads that message, I know one thing:
She heard me — in her own way — all along.
