The Things We Don’t Say Out Loud

"Somewhere between silence and safety, we learn how to love what's fragile and stay anyway."

Yuna had always loved quiet spaces.

Libraries. Cafés at closing time. Empty lecture halls in the morning light.

But lately, the quiet had started to feel… louder.

Not in a bad way. Just fuller. Like the air around her carried the weight of everything unsaid—letters never sent, fears unspoken, small wishes folded into the corners of her notebook.

She sat by the library window that afternoon, fingers curled around a pencil, notebook open to a blank page. Her professor's words from earlier echoed in her mind:

"We want you to represent Havenbrook in the regional writer's showcase."

Yuna hadn't responded. She'd just blinked, nodded, and walked away.

It was the kind of opportunity she used to dream about.

But now that it was real?

All she could think about was the possibility of messing it up.

Mina plopped into the seat across from her, nearly knocking over Yuna's cup of tea.

"You're being quiet again," she said. "Which either means you're in love or spiraling. Possibly both."

Yuna didn't look up. "Professor Hwang nominated me for the showcase."

Mina dropped her jaw dramatically. "Are you serious? That's huge!"

"I don't know if I can do it."

"You're already doing it. You just haven't said yes out loud."

"I don't know what to read. Or say. Or—"

"Yuna." Mina leaned across the table. "You don't need to impress anyone. Just be honest. You have this stillness about you—this softness that makes people feel. That's enough."

Yuna finally looked up.

"You really think I can do it?"

"I think," Mina said, "you already did. You just haven't stepped into it yet."

Eli didn't answer his phone that evening.

Yuna wasn't worried at first. He'd been busier lately—working longer hours at the café, helping his professor with side projects, trying to finish a music portfolio for an old scholarship he'd quietly decided to apply for again.

But when it turned dark and there was still no reply, she slipped on her coat and walked to the café anyway.

It was closed.

Lights off.

She stood in the cold for a moment, heart beginning to pick up speed.

Then she remembered.

The greenhouse.

She found him there, sitting in the dim light of the overgrown room, a candle burning near his feet, sketchbook in his lap.

He didn't look up when she walked in.

"Eli?"

His voice was low. "Hey."

She sat beside him without asking.

He kept his eyes on the page. "Sorry I didn't text. Today's Noah's birthday."

Yuna's breath caught.

"I didn't know."

"I didn't tell you," he said. "Not because I didn't want to. I just… didn't know how to bring it up without making it sound like something you needed to fix."

"You don't have to fix it," she said softly. "You just have to feel it."

They sat in silence.

The candle flickered.

"I keep thinking about the last birthday we spent together," Eli murmured. "He wanted pancakes. I was annoyed because I had class. So I rushed through it. I didn't even sing the stupid song."

His voice cracked. "I'd give anything to go back and sing it."

Yuna reached for his hand. He let her take it, fingers curling tightly around hers.

"I think," she said gently, "he'd forgive you."

Eli closed his eyes.

They stayed there like that for a long time, not speaking, not moving.

Just breathing.

Together.

Later, he walked her home. Neither said much, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

It was sacred.

Before she stepped inside, he touched her wrist.

"Can I stay?"

Yuna hesitated—but not because she was unsure.

She was just overwhelmed by the fact that she wanted him to.

"Yes."

They didn't sleep right away.

They sat on her floor in pajamas, sharing leftover cookies and talking about nothing—movies, books, the worst assignments they'd ever turned in.

Then, slowly, the conversation turned again.

"Why do you think it's so hard to forgive ourselves?" Eli asked.

Yuna shrugged. "Because we know the full story. The parts no one else sees."

"But we don't offer the same grace we'd give anyone else."

"No," she whispered. "Because we're always the villain in our own memories."

Eli looked at her.

"You're not a villain," he said. "You're the reason I believe people can still be good."

Yuna's breath caught.

Then, softly: "Do you ever wonder if we would've found each other anyway? In a different life?"

"I think," he said, "we were always meant to find each other in this one. Because only this version of us would know what it means to stay."

They curled under the blankets. Nothing rushed. Nothing assumed.

Just the hush of early morning light slipping through the curtains. The warmth of shared breath. The quiet hum of healing.

And in that moment, with her head against his chest, Yuna knew:

She wasn't just in something.

She was becoming someone.

And Eli—quiet, guarded, endlessly kind—was becoming her favorite place to land.

That morning, after he left, she opened her notebook and wrote:

"Some people don't fix your broken pieces.They simply remind you you're still whole, even when you feel hollow."