Chapter 9: Screaming Underwater
The wind had stilled.
Outside the window, the branches stood frozen, suspended in the rare hush that comes either just before a storm or right after something unspoken finally settles. The world felt paused, like it was listening. But inside David's chest, a storm still stirred.
He couldn't stop thinking about the ashes.
The burned slip of paper.
Zayan's name.
The things that were never said. The silences that stretched too long and filled too much space.
He kept the charred edge of that note in a small white dish now — placed beside Mavia's worn-out notebook. It wasn't a shrine. Not quite. But it felt like a point on a map he didn't want to forget. Proof that something had existed. That someone had.
That morning, David found himself in Mavia's room again.
The light filtered in, soft and uneven through the pale curtains. Dust floated in the beams like tiny ghosts. He crouched beside the lowest drawer of Mavia's old desk — the one they never used, the one that always jammed halfway.
He wasn't looking for anything specific.
Maybe he just wanted to touch something that hadn't yet been saturated by grief.
What he found was a silver iPod, scratched and dusty, tucked beneath a sketchpad full of half-finished ideas and quick pencil strokes. On the back, a cheap cracked sticker still clung to the metal.
Property of M.K. — NO TOUCHING
David smiled.
It was the kind of smile that hurt. The kind that belonged to a time before everything shattered.
He wiped the screen with his sleeve and plugged it in. The iPod's old battery blinked weakly to life. In the silence of the room, David could hear Meher's soft footsteps downstairs, moving like someone who didn't want to disturb ghosts.
When the screen lit up, only one playlist appeared:
"Last Winter."
Just seven songs.
And one voice memo.
Dated nearly a year ago.
David stared at the file.
Then pressed play.
---
> "Okay. Mavia. Just say it."
A pause.
The faint crackle of background static.
> "If someone's hearing this… I guess I couldn't say it out loud. So this is me… saying it anyway. For future me. Or David. Or whoever finds this."
His voice wavered slightly — unsure, stripped of the humor Mavia always carried like a shield.
> "Sometimes I feel like I'm screaming underwater. Like everyone else is on land, walking, laughing, talking… and I'm beneath it all, waving my arms. Waiting to be seen."
> "And yeah. I act fine. Joke around. Pretend. Because if I didn't… people would look at me differently."
Silence.
A long one.
David almost thought the recording had ended. But then—
> "David… if this is you… I'm sorry. I know you tried. Even when you didn't get it. And I'm not mad that you left."
> "I just wish you'd stayed. Not to fix me. Just… to sit beside me. Even if I didn't say anything."
Another pause.
The next part was softer. Quieter. Directed elsewhere.
> "If this is Meher… I think you heard more than you let on. I always felt it. Thank you for letting me be quiet, without making me explain everything."
A breath.
Then—
> "I love you both."
> "Don't forget me. But don't stop either. Keep going. Tell the story, even the pieces I couldn't."
Click.
The file ended.
But it left something cracked open in David — a weight he hadn't realized was still pressing against his ribs. He didn't move. His hands were trembling, the iPod still resting between his palms.
The silence after the recording was louder than any sound.
---
He didn't speak to Meher about it right away.
He didn't have to.
That afternoon, David uploaded the voice memo to The Last Message without commentary. No caption. No lead-in. Just the raw audio.
He titled the post:
"Screaming Underwater."
And beneath it, he wrote only:
> "This was never about saving him.
This was about finally hearing him."
---
The response was like a wave crashing against the page.
Not just comments — confessions.
> "I feel like Mavia spoke for me too."
> "I've never cried at a recording before. I didn't know someone else felt this way."
> "Please… never delete this. This is what I've been trying to say for years."
The views passed six thousand in just half a day. But it wasn't the number that shook David — it was the stories people poured back in return.
He sat at his desk, scrolling through each one.
Some came from teenagers in quiet corners of the world.
Some from adults who'd carried invisible weight for decades.
> "This recording made me pause and really look at my son today."
> "My best friend died two years ago. I think he felt like this. Thank you."
Mavia's voice had crossed borders.
It had pierced walls David didn't even know existed.
---
That evening, Meher stepped into his room carrying two things: a cup of tea, and a folded piece of paper.
"You need to see this," she said, her voice steadier than it had been in days.
It was an email — printed and smoothed flat.
From a school counselor in Canada.
> "Dear David,
We've started reading The Last Message with our student support group.
Your friend's words — especially the voice recording — have changed how my students speak about their feelings.
One boy said, 'I didn't know someone could explain my head out loud.'
Thank you for letting your friend be heard.
You're changing more than you know."
David lowered the paper slowly.
Meher placed her hand on his shoulder. She didn't squeeze it. She didn't need to.
"He didn't disappear," she said softly. "You pulled him back."
---
That night, David walked alone to the cliffside Mavia used to call The Quiet World.
It overlooked the trees and rooftops, a place they'd once sat in silence, just breathing side by side, no words required.
He sat on the mossy bench, pulled out the iPod, and played the memo again.
Not because he needed answers.
But because hearing Mavia's voice made the world feel less sharp.
The wind moved through the trees like something exhaling.
He whispered into the air, "They're hearing you now, Mavia."
A breeze touched his cheek — gentle, not cold.
Almost like a reply.
---
When David returned home, he didn't go straight to the blog.
He sat by the window, opened a leather-bound notebook, and began to write just for himself.
Just for Mavia.
> You weren't invisible.
Your silence wasn't weakness.
It was a storm kept in a jar.
And now it's breaking open — not to flood us,
but to water the ground you left behind.
---
The next morning, he posted again.
Not a quote.
Not an excerpt.
Just a story about how silence becomes echo.
About how grief, when shared, becomes less sharp — more bearable.
He titled it:
"The Echo You Didn't Expect."
The post didn't trend.
It didn't need to.
Because something had shifted.
This wasn't just about loss anymore.
It was about resonance.
It was about staying.
It was about listening to what was left behind — and understanding it for the first time.
---
That night, David turned off the lights and walked to the window.
The moonlight poured across his desk, brushing the corners of Mavia's sketchbook and the small white dish holding the ash.
The curtain swayed gently with the breeze.
David didn't look this time.
He just closed his eyes and whispered:
"I hear you, Mavia. Every word."
And for the first time in weeks, the silence didn't feel like an absence.
It felt like healing.
---
End of Chapter