Between Us, Only Silence Spoke

The rain had already begun by the time we reached the old veranda. Thick droplets hammered against the tin roof, turning the evening into a symphony of thunder, wind, and water. It was the kind of rain that drowned out traffic, swallowed every distant sound, and wrapped the world in its own heartbeat. We hadn’t planned to end up here. We hadn’t planned anything, really. Mira and I were supposed to just grab coffee, talk about work, maybe joke about how adulthood was slowly killing us. But somewhere between the café closing early and the storm arriving early, we found ourselves walking without a destination. And now, standing on the wide veranda of an abandoned library building, our clothes damp and our breaths visible in the cold air, I realized something: We weren’t avoiding the storm. We were avoiding each other. Or maybe the truth sitting quietly between us. Mira sat down on the old wooden bench first, brushing raindrops from her arms. I joined her, though not too close. Not too far either. Just… somewhere safe. The rain roared on, loud enough to fill every empty space between us. She exhaled, slow and tired. “You ever feel like life keeps pushing you into corners you didn’t ask for?” “Every week,” I said. “Sometimes every hour.” She gave a small laugh—soft, humorless. “Yeah. Same.” For a long moment, that was it. No deeper conversation, no confessions. Just the storm, the cold air, and the weight of things neither of us seemed ready to voice. She leaned her head back, eyes drifting to the sky. “I wish I could just… pause everything. Just breathe.” “You can,” I said. “Right now. Here.” She looked at me then—a long, searching glance that made my chest tighten. Rain glistened on her eyelashes, turning her eyes darker, softer. “You’re quiet today,” she said. “So are you.” “That’s not new for you,” she pointed out. “But me? I never shut up.” “Maybe you don’t need words right now.” She sighed. “Maybe I don’t.” Another long silence fell between us. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy. Full. She hugged her knees, curling slightly. “Do you ever wonder what would happen if we actually talked about the things we avoid?” I swallowed. “All the time.” “Then why don’t we?” I looked out at the rain, each drop hitting the railing with sharp clarity. “Because I don’t want to break what we already have.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if not talking is what’s breaking it?” The thunder rolled softly behind us, as if agreeing. My throat tightened. “You know that’s not what I want.” “I know,” she whispered. “But lately, every time we’re together, it feels like you’re somewhere else… in your head.” I turned to her. “Mira, I’m still here. Always here.” “If you were,” she said quietly, “you’d look at me.” Her words sank deep—painful, honest, impossible to ignore. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to hers. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t hurt. She was simply waiting—for something I’d never found the courage to give. The rain softened for a moment, as if offering us space to breathe. “Why do you pull away?” she asked. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. “Mira…” She didn’t blink. “Tell me.” My heart pounded louder than the storm. I had avoided this moment for years—tucking feelings into jokes, burying truths under routines, pretending silence was enough to keep everything stable. But tonight, the silence wasn’t protecting us. It was exposing everything we’d tried to hide. I ran a hand through my wet hair. “I don’t pull away because I don’t care.” “Then why?” “Because I care too much,” I said. “And I don’t know what to do with that.” Her breath caught. “Too much?” “Yes,” I whispered. “More than I should. More than I want to. More than friends usually do.” The words hung between us—vulnerable, trembling, dangerous. She looked away for the first time, staring at the rain. Her chest rose and fell slowly, like she was trying to steady herself. “You think I don’t feel it too?” she said softly. That stopped me cold. “What?” She let out a small laugh—shaky, fragile. “This… whatever lives between us… you think I’m blind to it?” My pulse stumbled. “You never said anything.” “Neither did you.” We stared at each other again, something unspoken pulsing in the air—raw, alive, terrifying. Then, without warning, the power in the nearby streetlights flickered out, plunging everything into near-darkness. Only the faint glow from passing cars and the silver wash of lightning lit her face. In that half-light, she looked heartbreakingly honest. “I didn’t say anything,” she continued, “because I was scared you’d step back. Or worse… pretend you didn’t understand.” “And I didn’t say anything,” I said, “because I didn’t want to risk losing you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe silence has been losing us slowly every day.” The rain hit harder again, shaking the tin roof. It was the only sound filling the air. Between us, only silence spoke. And somehow, that silence said everything. Slowly, cautiously, she reached out and placed her hand on the bench, closer to mine. Not touching. But close enough that warmth drifted across the small gap. “Mira…” I breathed. She didn’t look away this time. “If we keep pretending, we’re going to break something important.” I swallowed hard. “And if we stop pretending…?” Her fingers inched closer. “Then at least we’ll finally know the truth.” Lightning lit the sky again, illuminating her face—her trembling smile, her vulnerable eyes, her quiet bravery. I placed my hand next to hers—close enough that our fingers brushed. That tiny touch felt louder than any confession. Her breath hitched. “See?” she whispered. “The silence already knew.” We sat like that, hands almost touching, neither of us breaking the fragile magic of the moment. After a long, trembling pause, she leaned her head against my shoulder. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… honest. “I don’t know what happens next,” she murmured. “Me neither,” I said softly. “But for the first time… I’m not afraid to find out.” Her fingers finally intertwined with mine—slow, careful, certain. And in the middle of the storm, with thunder echoing and the world hidden behind rain, the silence between us finally shifted. It wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t confusing. It was full of every truth we had been too afraid to speak. The storm outside raged on, but inside that old veranda, something tender unfolded— a fragile beginning built not on words, but on the quiet courage of finally listening to what the silence had been saying all along.