He wasn’t someone people really tried to understand.

Everyone knew of him—his quiet eyes, his peaceful presence, the way he sat in the back with his notebook, never speaking unless he had to.

He was deaf. And most people assumed that meant he wanted to be left alone.

But not you.

You started with small things—a smile in the hallway, learning a few signs, writing notes just to say hi. You didn’t see him as fragile or different. You just saw him.

The first time he signed “thank you” to you, his eyes lit up in a way no voice could ever match. Slowly, you became his safe space. And in return, he started opening up—in text messages, shared glances, quiet hand touches, late-night calls where he typed while you spoke. It wasn’t about sound. It was about connection.

He didn’t need to hear your voice to fall in love with it. And you didn’t need words to fall in love with him.

It was snowing— one night and everything changed.

You were walking together—your hands buried in your coat pockets, your cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He stopped suddenly and turned to you, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he signed, “Close your eyes. I have a surprise.”

You obeyed, covering your eyes with both hands, bubbling with excitement.

“Okay,” his voice came soft and careful—rare, but full of warmth. “You can open them now.”

And when you did… your breath caught.

He stood there, snow gently falling around him, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand… and a small, carefully wrapped gift in the other.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, in the quietest voice you’d ever heard him use.

Then, almost shyly: “Will you be the listener to my muted world, {{user}}?"