The Words We Don’t Say

"We don't always speak the truth out loud. Sometimes, we live it in the way we stay."

Yuna didn't hear from her mother for three days.

No texts. No missed calls. No polite follow-ups asking about school, classes, or future plans. She didn't know whether to be relieved or hurt. Maybe both. That's how it always was with her mother—conversations that started with expectations and ended in quiet judgment. Not cruel. Just cold.

She tried to focus on her literature paper instead.

Professor Hwang had assigned a short essay: Analyze how silence functions as a form of communication in modern fiction.

Yuna stared at the blinking cursor on her screen for fifteen minutes straight. No words came.

Not because she didn't understand the topic—but because she understood it too well.

On Wednesday, after class, she met Mina in the student quad.

Mina was wearing a long brown coat over plaid pants and boots that made her two inches taller. Her hair was pinned half-up, messy in the way that only fashion majors could pull off on purpose.

"You look like you walked out of a Parisian art film," Yuna said, smirking as she sipped her tea.

"I am my own muse," Mina declared, twirling dramatically.

They sat under one of the red-leafed trees on a stone bench warmed by the late afternoon sun. Students passed by in waves—some heading to class, others lingering with friends or laptops.

Mina nudged her. "How's your brain?"

"Loud," Yuna said truthfully.

"Want to talk about it?"

Yuna hesitated, then nodded. "My mom called a few days ago. We fought. Or, I guess, didn't fight."

"The worst kind of fight," Mina muttered. "The kind where you don't even get to yell."

Yuna smiled faintly. "She doesn't see this as real. My major. This town. Even my peace—it's all temporary to her."

"Some people love versions of us that don't exist anymore," Mina said. "And when we grow, they treat it like betrayal."

Yuna leaned her head against her friend's shoulder. "You always say things that sound like quotes."

"Only the dramatic ones," Mina said. "And only for you."

They sat like that in silence, until the breeze picked up and rustled the branches above them.

Later that day, Yuna wandered into the campus bookstore, fingers trailing the spines of paperbacks and poetry anthologies. She bought a used copy of Letters to a Young Poet and tucked it into her bag. It felt right. Like something she needed, even if she didn't know why.

She found herself outside Mocha Moon without thinking.

The café was busier than usual. A few students sat huddled around a table, whispering over a laptop. A middle-aged couple sipped tea by the window. Someone strummed a guitar softly in the corner—one of the local musicians Eli sometimes let perform during slow hours.

She stood in the doorway for a moment.

Eli saw her immediately.

He didn't smile, but his shoulders relaxed. That was how she knew she was welcome.

"Long day?" he asked as she approached the counter.

"Very," she breathed. "Do you have something that tastes like a soft blanket?"

He reached for a mug. "I've got just the thing."

While he worked, she leaned on the counter, watching him quietly.

"Eli?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you… ever feel like no matter how much you grow, someone still sees you as who you were before?"

He didn't look up right away. He poured the drink, added cinnamon, then met her eyes.

"Every time I talk to my mother," he said.

The honesty in his voice startled her.

"She still talks like I'm a teenager," he added. "Like I'm someone who quit because I gave up. Not someone who survived something."

Yuna swallowed.

"What happened?"

Eli hesitated, then passed her the drink. Their fingers brushed again.

"My younger brother passed away three years ago," he said quietly. "Car accident. I was supposed to pick him up from school. I was late."

Yuna's heart stopped.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He nodded once. "After that… I stopped playing music. Couldn't hear it the same way. Couldn't stand the silence after."

She wanted to reach for him. To say something more than "I'm sorry." But what words could fix a crack that deep?

Instead, she sat down at her usual table and held the mug in her hands.

The napkin under it read:

"Grief never ends… but it changes. It's a passage, not a place to stay."

He hadn't written a name beneath it. But she knew it was for her, too.

The next morning, she wrote.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

She filled three pages with thoughts on silence. Not just the absence of sound—but the presence of feeling. The way some people made space for you without demanding anything in return. The way Eli did.

She submitted the essay before noon.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt… proud.

That Friday, Havenbrook hosted its annual fall festival in the town square.

Mina practically dragged Yuna out of bed for it. "We're not skipping this. It's our first one, and there will be cider, and live music, and guys in flannel with commitment issues."

Yuna laughed. "Tempting."

"Dress cute. Wear boots. It's a cozy aesthetic emergency."

By five, the town square was glowing.

Fairy lights were strung between lampposts. Leaves crunched underfoot as people strolled between booths selling hot drinks, knitted scarves, candles, and homemade cookies. Children ran past with painted faces. Musicians played acoustic covers on a small stage in front of the old theater.

Yuna wore a cream sweater, corduroy skirt, and her favorite boots. Mina had curled her hair and declared her "festival-pretty." They bought apple cider and walked slowly through the crowd, hearts a little lighter.

Halfway through the square, they spotted Eli.

He stood near a caramel popcorn booth, talking to the bookstore owner, Noah, who looked even more grumpy than usual under his beanie. Eli's jacket was unzipped, and he had his hands in his pockets, casually relaxed.

He saw Yuna before she could decide whether to approach.

And he smiled.

This time, it wasn't small. It was full. Honest.

Yuna smiled back and walked toward him.

"I didn't know you liked festivals," she teased.

"I don't," Eli replied. "But Noah guilt-tripped me into being social."

"Excellent plan," she said. "You look… different."

"Is that good?"

"Very."

He looked down for a moment, then back at her. "You look nice, too."

Their eyes held for just a little too long.

Before either could say more, Mina appeared at Yuna's side with two cups of spiced cider. "Oh wow, look at this slow-burn scene. You could cut the tension with a cinnamon stick."

Yuna groaned. "Mina, please."

But Eli chuckled.

Mina handed him one of the cups. "Don't worry. I ship it respectfully."

Noah muttered from behind the booth, "God, this town."

Later that night, as the crowd thinned and the music softened, Eli walked Yuna toward the edge of the square.

They didn't speak much.

But the silence between them felt full again.

Safe.

She stopped by the large oak tree near the streetlight and turned to face him.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For being… consistent. Steady. I think I needed that more than I realized."

He studied her face, voice quiet. "You make it easy."

The streetlight flickered gently, casting golden light across their faces.

Yuna looked up at him.

"I think I'm starting to write again," she said.

Eli's lips curved. "Good. You should."

She hesitated.

Then added, softly, "And I think I'm starting to feel again, too."

He nodded once.

And in the crisp autumn night, they stood there — two people with pasts still healing, hearts still guarded, and something unspoken blooming gently between them.

Not love.

Not yet.

But maybe… the beginning of it.