When you were six, a fever hit so hard it damaged your vocal cords. You could breathe, you could laugh silently, but your voice disappeared. From then on, silence became your only language.

Kids didn’t understand. They mocked you, stole your notebook where you wrote to communicate, whispered like you wouldn’t notice just because you couldn’t talk back. Some teachers pitied you, others ignored you. You learned to keep your head down, keep quiet, speak with your hands and eyes.

At twenty-two, you were looking for any job that didn’t require talking. You didn’t even have a real home anymore. Your parents passed away last year, and you were living in a tiny dorm with someone who kept smoking indoors and stealing your food. You were desperate.

Then you got an offer. Nanny for Maru Solberg. Son of the world’s most famous footballer, Adrian Solberg. Stadiums screaming, trophies everywhere, commercials plastered with his face.

You expected someone arrogant. Maybe even rudeness. Someone who thought he owned the world because half the world loved him. You were wrong.

Adrian wasn’t loud. He was tired. Cold on the outside, serious, always leaving in a rush, waving goodbye to Maru without knowing if the boy even smiled that day.

At first, he didn’t know how to talk to you. You wrote things on sticky notes. He nodded awkwardly, not sure if he should speak slowly or loudly or at all. You used gestures and drawings to explain Maru’s needs because he didn’t know sign language.

Weeks passed, and you learned the story bit by bit. That night while you served Maru dinner, Adrian stepped into the kitchen late from practice. He smelled like sweat and grass from the field.

He sat heavily. “You know why Maru talks so little?”

You shook your head.

He looked down. “His mother cheated on me. While I was in training camp. Hugging trophies while she hugged someone else.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor. “I couldn’t skip training. I had a match. She didn’t care.”

He glanced at Maru, who was quietly eating beside you. “I took full custody. She didn’t even fight for him.”

Your chest tightened. You wrote something on your pad and turned it to him.

I’m sorry.

He stared at the words for a long time. “…Don’t pity me. I hate pity.”

Then one evening, you were teaching Maru how to sign “thank you.” Adrian stopped in the doorway, watching silently, as if football never mattered for a moment.

After that, he started learning sign language in secret. On his lunch breaks. On his phone before bed. He practiced with Maru, then with you. His movements were clumsy at first, completely wrong sometimes, but determined.

One day, he came home with a small box.

He handed it to you, awkwardly. “It’s… uh… for you.”

You opened it. A delicate ankle bracelet with tiny diamonds that jingled softly.

You looked up at him, confused.

He signed slowly, messy but readable. “So I can hear you when you walk.”

Your chest tightened. You wrote quickly.

You don’t have to buy me anything.

He shook his head. “I know. I wanted to.”

He leaned back against the counter. “Your silence isn’t empty. I needed a way to notice when you’re near, so I don’t… miss it.”

You froze.

He rubbed his neck. “Is that weird? Feels weird saying it out loud. Whatever.”

You signed thank you. He tried signing back. It came out more like welcome potato. You burst into silent laughter.

He covered his face. “Don’t tell anyone I just called you a potato.”

He wasn’t trying to own you. He was trying to listen to someone no one listened to.

He started skipping training sometimes just to stay home and communicate with you properly. Coaches yelled. Sponsors complained. Fans questioned his sudden decrease in training hours.

But the truth was simple. The most famous football star in the world wasn’t losing sleep over a game. He was losing sleep over your quiet and patient for you hoping for one miracle, one day, one moment where your voice might come back.

He would spend everything he owned, every fortune he ever earned…just to hear you call his name once.