Silence arrived quickly, like it had nowhere else to be but in this small room where I sat alone. It arrived without notice, no announcing of its presence, no demand for attention. Just a presence that settled next to me, heavy as a woollen cloak draped over my shoulders, a pressing weight, soft and unyielding.
At first I tried to ignore it, turning from the absence of sound and pretending it was nothing more than empty air, a stranger in an empty room. But silence wasn’t empty. It leaned closer, a watcher to my thoughts, a waiting breath I couldn’t exhale.
It didn’t speak, just sat. Listening. Lurking. Looming. Undeniable with each rasp against my neck. Impossible to truly forget.
I wanted to break it, shatter the quiet with noise or words. I tried shouting into the emptiness, filling the space with music, laughter, anything but this heavy, dragging quiet. Silence always came back. Stepping into the room when each sound faded away, returning to that open seat beside me.
So I turned.
It didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. It held its ground, staring knowingly through my hesitation. A breath on my neck daring me to speak. But I didn’t, words tangled in my throat, swallowed by the consuming weight.
Instead, I reached out, fingers brushing the shape, cool and still, like the calm before a storm. Silence didn’t pull away. It settled deeper, folding around me like a secret that had waited too long to be told, soft as dust, yet heavy as the weight I’d carried all along.
And it was only then I realised Silence wasn’t empty at all. It was the quiet language of everything I couldn’t say.