The Quiet Between Words

The library was quiet that day. Not just in sound, but in feeling. Like the walls themselves held their breath.

Elysia found a corner table tucked between tall shelves, far from the main reading area. She liked the isolation. The silence felt cleaner than the one in her house.

She dropped her bag onto the chair beside her and pulled out her psychology notes. They sprawled across the table, but she wasn't reading. Her eyes kept slipping, her mind caught in last night's ache and this morning's emptiness.

Her sweater itched against the bruises on her neck.

She pressed her palm flat against the table to ground herself.

Footsteps approached.

She didn't look up.

Not until they stopped directly across from her.

When she raised her eyes, she saw him.

Professor Halton Vale.

He said nothing. He simply gestured slightly toward the seat across from her. She blinked, uncertain. Slowly, she gave a nod.

He sat down.

No smile. No greeting. Just a quiet presence. He pulled a slim book from the inside of his coat, opened it to a marked page, and began to read.

Elysia watched him for a moment longer than she should've. His face was calm, focused, like the noise of the world didn't reach him here. He didn't glance up. He didn't acknowledge her further. But he didn't need to.

There was something about his silence that didn't feel dismissive. It felt... intentional.

So she turned back to her notes, though she wasn't reading them. Every so often, her eyes drifted toward the book in his hands.

Minutes passed. She counted them without meaning to.

Then—his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it. A faint flicker of something crossed his expression. He closed the book slowly, slipped his phone into his hand, and stood up.

"Excuse me," he said, more to the room than to her.

And then he left.

Elysia watched the space where he had been.

The chair still held his shape.

The book sat where he'd left it, half-closed, the spine soft with wear.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

He didn't return.

Her curiosity got the better of her.

She reached forward and turned the book so she could read the title: The Things We Don't Say.

Something about it felt familiar, though she'd never seen it before.

She opened to the marked page.

> "Some people survive things they never speak of.

Not because they're brave.

But because silence is the only language they were ever taught to survive in."

Her breath caught.

She turned another page.

> "We tell ourselves we're okay just because no one asks otherwise.

But silence is not healing. It is hiding."

Every word felt aimed directly at her chest.

She sat back slowly, the book still open in her lap.

The words weren't flowery or dramatic. They were simple. Honest. They didn't pity or console. They just... saw her.

And that made her feel more exposed than anything else had in a long time.

She read more.

Flipping page after page, careful not to crease the corners. Her world slipped away—the pain in her ribs, the numbness in her heart, the blank stares of classmates, her mother's silence.

Here, there were words.

Not solutions. Not promises.

Just recognition.

And that was enough.

After a long while, she looked up. The library was nearly empty. The late afternoon light painted streaks across the floor.

Still no sign of Professor Vale.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the book.

A pause.

Then, without fully thinking, she slipped it into her bag.

She would return it, she told herself. Of course she would.

But not yet.

Not before finishing it.

Not before finding out why every word felt like it had been waiting for her.