Chapter 4: Where the Silence Led Him

The house was quiet again.

David sat alone at the kitchen table, steam curling from the mug in front of him, untouched. Meher had gone upstairs to rest. The lamp above hummed softly, casting shadows across the walls, turning the empty seat beside him into something unbearable.

He stared at the folded note from Karim, now carefully pressed between two pages of Mavia's notebook."He was the only thing that made staying feel possible for a while."

That line haunted him.

How many times had Mavia tried to reach out before deciding silence was easier? How many moments did David miss — or worse, ignore?

He opened the notebook again, flipping through pages filled with fragments: questions, confessions, half-finished thoughts. But what he was looking for wasn't there.

Not yet.

He reached the back again, to the torn page.

Only the faintest indentations remained. He held it to the light.

"David was never..."

The rest was gone.

The next morning, David found Meher sitting by the front window, scrolling absently through her phone. She looked up as he entered, brushing her hair back into a loose bun.

"You're going out again?" she asked.

He nodded, slipping on his jacket. "I want to talk to someone else who knew him. Karim mentioned literature class. I think someone there might know more."

Meher gave him a small, tired smile. "You're chasing ghosts."

David paused. "No. I'm trying to piece him back together."

He went to Mavia's school, now cloaked in weekend silence. The main gate was locked, but he remembered the small coffee shop nearby — the one they always used to joke about being "too adult" for teenagers. The kind of place with old books and stale cinnamon muffins.

Inside, the barista looked up from behind a row of mismatched mugs.

"Can I help you?"

David hesitated. "I'm looking for someone who knew Mavia — Mavia Rehman. He was in Mr. Asif's literature class last semester."

The barista's eyes softened. "Yeah. I remember him. Quiet kid. Always had a poetry book."

David's throat tightened. "Do you know if anyone from that class comes here often?"

She thought for a moment. "There's a girl. Areeba. Always carried a copy of Sylvia Plath. She and Mavia used to talk sometimes."

David nodded. "Do you know her last name?"

"Mirza, I think."

She jotted down the name and handed it over with a small, understanding look. "I'm sorry, by the way. About him."

David murmured his thanks and stepped outside, blinking in the late morning sun.

With the help of a few social media searches and a message sent from his old student account, he found her.

Areeba Mirza replied within the hour. Her message was simple:

I remember Mavia. And I remember you. He mentioned you once.

I can talk. 4 p.m. at the library — second floor. Quiet corner by the old archives.

By 3:50, David was already there.

The library smelled of old paper and cleaner. The second floor was mostly empty, a haven of silence. He found her near a window — small frame, sharp eyes, a book of poetry cradled in her lap.

"You came," she said softly.

David nodded and sat down across from her.

"You said he mentioned me?"

Areeba tilted her head. "Once. Briefly. He called you 'the only person who ever made the silence bearable.' I didn't know what he meant until now."

David lowered his gaze. "I didn't know he was carrying so much."

"No one did. But I suspected," she said. "He used to write letters in the back of his books. Folded notes he never sent."

David leaned forward. "Do you still have one?"

She reached into her tote and pulled out a slim novel — one of Mavia's favorites, he recognized the cover. Between its pages, folded like a secret, was a pale blue sticky note.

She handed it to him without a word.

Everyone thinks I'm deep because I'm quiet. But the silence isn't depth. It's weight.

David used to carry some of it for me. Until he dropped it.

I wonder if he knows I was waiting for him to come back for it.

David read it twice, heart crumpling like paper.

"He was waiting for me," he whispered.

Areeba nodded. "He never stopped."

David looked at her. "Why didn't he give this to me?"

"Because some things aren't meant to be said out loud," she said. "Especially when you're afraid they'll drive people away."

That evening, David returned to Mavia's room and laid everything out across the bed.

The notebook. The letter from Karim. The sticky note from Areeba. All of it—evidence, fragments, parts of a boy who had vanished into his own silence.

But still... the missing page burned in his mind.

And that night, it came to him in a dream.

He was back at the campfire.Not the real one — but a twisted version, surreal and shadowed.Mavia sat across from him, just like before. But his face was flickering like candlelight. Fading.

"You never asked me to stay," dream-Mavia said.

David swallowed. "I thought you needed space."

"I needed someone who wouldn't be afraid of the dark."

David leaned forward. "Then why didn't you say that?"

"Because the last time I did," Mavia whispered, "you looked away."

The flames flared.

David woke up gasping.

The next morning, David knew what he had to do.

He didn't need the missing page.

He needed to write the ending himself.

He returned to the bench at the overlook — the "quiet world." The mist had cleared today. The sky was pale, open, forgiving.

He opened a blank page in the back of the notebook and began to write:

You said I was right.

But I wasn't.

People like us — we don't fade because we're broken. We fade because no one holds the light long enough.

I should have held it longer.

I should have stayed.

But I hear you now, Mavia.

And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure the world does too.

As he closed the notebook, the breeze lifted his hair, and the valley below shimmered in morning light.

Mavia was gone.

But he wasn't lost.

Not anymore.

End of Chapter 4