The Sound of What We’re Becoming

"Some silences aren't empty. They're full of everything we don't know how to say yet."

It started with an email.

Yuna almost deleted it, thinking it was spam, but the subject line caught her eye: University Literary Review – Invitation to Submit Work.

Her heart skipped as she read it again.

Professor Hwang had recommended her for a special submission round. No guarantees, but her name had been passed to the editorial committee. If she wanted to submit a piece for consideration, it was due in a week.

She stared at the screen.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

And for the first time in years, she let herself type without fear.

That afternoon, she ran into Eli outside the bookstore.

He had one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a small paper bag from Mocha Moon—muffins, probably, judging by the smell. He smiled when he saw her.

"You look like you're about to combust," he said.

Yuna practically bounced in place. "I got asked to submit my writing to the university lit review."

His eyebrows rose. "Seriously?"

"I haven't told anyone else. I needed to say it out loud to someone who wouldn't tell me to stay realistic."

"Yuna," he said, stepping closer, "I've read your words. They don't belong in a drawer. They belong in print."

Her throat tightened.

"Will you show me what you're submitting?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"I'll bribe you with muffins."

She laughed. "I'll think about it."

They fell into step, walking side by side down the sidewalk, their shoulders brushing every few steps. It wasn't cold enough to see their breath, but the wind carried the smell of fireplace smoke and something nostalgic.

"You ever think about submitting music?" Yuna asked.

Eli's smile faded, not completely, but just enough.

"I don't write anymore," he said. "Not since…"

She knew what came next.

"You don't have to finish that sentence," she said softly.

"I want to," he admitted. "But I'm still trying to figure out how."

They walked in silence for a moment longer, until Yuna said, "You know what I've learned?"

"What?"

"There's no finish line in healing. Just moments when the light gets in."

Eli looked at her then, and whatever words he'd been carrying, they stayed in his chest.

But his eyes said enough.

That night, Mina practically tackled her when she got back to the apartment.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!" she shouted.

"I was walking. With Eli."

"You got the email, didn't you?"

Yuna blinked. "You got one too?"

"I DID. I CRIED. I ATE A DONUT IN TRIUMPH. I'M SUBMITTING THAT PIECE I READ AT THE CAFÉ."

Yuna laughed. "I'm proud of you."

Mina grabbed both her hands. "We're not shrinking anymore, Yuna. We're showing up."

Yuna's smile grew. "Yes. We are."

They danced around the living room to an old Taylor Swift song until they collapsed on the couch, breathless with joy.

Over the next few days, Yuna worked on her submission in pieces—paragraphs, lines, even single sentences at times. It wasn't a traditional essay. It wasn't a poem either.

It was a letter.

To herself.

The girl who almost gave up.

Three days before the deadline, Eli invited her to his apartment again.

"Dinner and records," he promised. "But there's something else."

When she arrived, the lights were dim, warm. The smell of roasted garlic and herbs filled the air.

"You're cooking again," she said, hanging up her coat.

"I'm trying. No promises."

They ate on the floor with mismatched plates, laughing over slightly burnt pasta and his total failure at plating.

Then he stood, nervous.

"I have something to play you."

Yuna blinked. "You're playing? On your piano?"

He nodded.

She followed him to the instrument in the corner—dark wood, worn keys, still beautiful.

Eli sat.

His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment.

Then he played.

It wasn't perfect. A few notes stumbled. But it was raw. Real. A piece of him poured into the room, quiet and brave. It felt like a confession.

Yuna closed her eyes and let it wrap around her like a blanket.

When he stopped, she opened them.

"I haven't done that in years," he whispered. "Not since Noah… Not since the funeral."

"I'm honored," she said simply.

He looked at her. "Why aren't you running away?"

"Because I'm not afraid of your brokenness," she said. "And you're not afraid of mine."

Then he stood.

Crossed to her.

And kissed her.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

But certain.

Later, they sat curled on the couch, her head on his shoulder, the music off, the silence full.

"I still have bad days," he said.

"Me too."

"I still feel like I'm letting people down."

"You're not."

He exhaled.

"You make me want to try again," he whispered. "Not just with music. With life."

She looked up at him.

"You don't have to try for me. Just try for you. I'll still be here."

He kissed her forehead.

And for the first time, she saw him relieved.

Not just in love.

Not just open.

But safe.

When Yuna got home that night, she added the final line to her submission letter:

"And if you're reading this now, it means I stopped hiding.I wrote my way forward.And somewhere along the way… I came back to myself."