Chapter 4: Pieces of Silence
The house was quiet again.
Not peaceful — just still. Like the walls were holding their breath.
David sat alone at the kitchen table, the steam from his untouched tea curling upward, vanishing before it reached anything. The lamp above buzzed faintly, flickering once, casting long shadows that made the empty seat beside him feel heavier than it should have.
The folded note from Karim rested on the table. David had pressed it carefully between two pages of Mavia's notebook, but he kept returning to it — unable to look away, unable to look at anything else.
> He was the only thing that made staying feel possible for a while.
That line had grown teeth. It gnawed at him — not just the words, but the weight behind them. How many times had Mavia reached for him and found no hand waiting? How many unsent messages? How many words left hanging in silence?
David opened the notebook again, flipping through fragments — sketches of pain, half-formed thoughts, lines that read like poetry but felt like apologies.
And then again — the torn page. The ragged edge stared back at him like a scar.
Only faint indentations remained beneath the missing paper. He angled it toward the light, as if searching for something between the lines, something left behind.
A shadow of a sentence:
> David was never…
The rest was lost.
---
The next morning, David found Meher in the living room, curled up by the window, scrolling through her phone like she wasn't really seeing anything. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She looked like someone suspended between days.
"You're going out again?" she asked.
David nodded, pulling on his jacket. "I need to talk to someone else who knew him. Karim mentioned his literature class. Maybe someone there remembers something… more."
Meher offered him a small, worn-out smile. "You're chasing ghosts."
David paused in the doorway. "No. I'm trying to piece him back together."
---
The school was closed — weekend silence blanketing the campus. But David didn't stop there.
Just across the street sat a tiny coffee shop that Mavia used to tease for being "too grown-up" — a place full of dusty shelves, ancient jazz music, and pastries that looked better than they tasted.
Inside, the barista glanced up from a tower of mugs. "Can I help you?"
David hesitated. "I'm looking for someone who knew Mavia Rehman. He was in Mr. Asif's literature class last semester."
The barista's face softened instantly. "Yeah… I remember him. Quiet. Kind. Always reading something older than he was."
David's throat tightened. "Did anyone from his class come here often? Anyone he talked to?"
The barista thought for a moment. "There was a girl. Areeba, I think. Always had Sylvia Plath tucked under her arm. She and Mavia used to sit over there by the window sometimes. Quiet, but I think they connected."
"Do you know her last name?"
"Mirza."
She scribbled the name on a napkin and handed it to him with a glance that understood more than it said.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "He seemed like someone who had more to say."
David stepped into the sunlight, the napkin in his pocket, his heart suddenly heavier.
---
He found Areeba on social media — her profile lined with quotes from tragic poets and fading Polaroids. He messaged her through his old student account, unsure what to expect.
She replied within the hour.
> I remember Mavia. I remember you, too. He mentioned you once.
I can talk. 4 p.m. at the library — second floor. Quiet corner near the archives.
By 3:50, David was already there.
---
The library smelled like old stories and disinfectant. The second floor was nearly empty — just the sound of turning pages and distant footsteps. In a corner by the tall windows, she sat alone with a poetry book balanced on her knee.
She looked up as he approached.
"You came."
David sat across from her. "You said he mentioned me?"
Areeba nodded. "Only once. But it stuck. He said you were the only person who ever made the silence bearable."
David looked down at his hands. "I didn't know he was carrying so much."
"No one did. But… I suspected. He wrote letters in the backs of his books. Notes he never sent."
David straightened. "Do you still have one?"
Without a word, Areeba reached into her bag and pulled out a worn paperback. He recognized it — one of Mavia's favorites. Between the pages, she withdrew a pale blue sticky note. Faded. Folded.
She slid it across the table.
> 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 once. Then again.
Each line tightened around his ribs until he couldn't breathe.
"He was waiting for me," he whispered.
Areeba didn't speak for a moment. Then she said, "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 replied. "Especially when you're afraid they'll push someone further away."
He nodded.
He understood that now.
---
That evening, David returned to Mavia's room.
He laid everything out on the bed — the notebook, Karim's letter, Areeba's sticky note. Pieces of a boy unraveling. Fragments of love, regret, and silence stitched together with ink.
But still — the missing page throbbed in his thoughts like a phantom limb.
And that night, it came to him.
---
In the dream, he was back at the campfire.
Not as it had been, but twisted — surreal. Trees like silhouettes, fire flickering like memory.
Mavia sat across from him, his face flickering like candlelight. Edges blurred. Half here. Half gone.
"You never asked me to stay," dream-Mavia said.
David's mouth was dry. "I thought you needed space."
"I needed someone who wouldn't be afraid of the dark."
David reached toward him. "Then why didn't you say that?"
"Because the last time I did," Mavia whispered, "you looked away."
The flames swelled, blinding.
David woke up gasping.
The room was quiet again.
But not hollow.
---
He knew what he had to do.
Not search for the missing page.
Write it.
---
The next morning, he returned to the overlook. Their quiet world.
The mist had lifted. The sky was open, soft, unfinished — like it was still becoming something.
He opened Mavia's notebook to a blank page.
And for the first time, he wrote back.
> 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've held it longer.
I should've stayed.
But I hear you now, Mavia.
I hear you in the silence you left.
And I promise — I won't let the world forget your voice.
I'll carry your words.
I'll speak where you couldn't.
I'll stay, even when it hurts.
That has to count for something.
He closed the notebook.
The wind swept over the hilltop, lifting his hair, kissing the page dry.
Below, the valley shimmered in pale gold.
Mavia was gone.
But David —
He wasn't lost anymore.
---
Chapter End