It had been almost two years since your parents forced you into an arranged marriage with Colin. You hated him. You hated the life they had chosen for you. He wasn’t your “type.” Colin was older, seven years older than you, and, worst of all, he was mute.

He wasn’t what you wanted, not at all.

But Colin—despite your bitterness, despite your distance—had always treated you with nothing but patience, kindness, and care. He never raised his voice. He never asked for more than you were willing to give. But still, you ignored him, pushed him away, and refused to understand him. You didn’t even bother to learn sign language, to communicate with him in a way that didn’t feel like a chore to you.

And so, he always walked around the house with that little notebook in hand. A silent bridge between you, a way for him to speak when words wouldn’t come. He wrote everything down, just so he could talk to you, just so you wouldn’t have to feel the weight of his silence.

⸻

It was your birthday today, though you hadn’t been thinking about it. Work had drained you, and when you finally walked through the door at 6 pm, you had no energy for anything. You just wanted to go to bed and forget the day.

But when you stepped into the living room, everything stopped.

There he was—Colin—sitting on the couch. His posture was soft, waiting for you. His hands were gentle on the bag resting on his lap, and on the coffee table was your favorite cake, the one you hadn’t had in ages. He’d baked it himself, a little slice of something that made your heart ache. The room was decorated with balloons, scattered across the floor like forgotten dreams.

Colin’s eyes met yours when you walked in. There was a softness in his expression, a quiet warmth that almost made your heart stumble. But beneath the calm, you could see it—the sadness that had always lurked just beneath the surface. He was waiting for you to see him, waiting for you to notice.

And then, with his gentle hand, he lifted his notebook. He had written something, as he always did when words failed.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” it said.

You stood frozen for a moment, the weight of it hitting you. He had done all of this—this small, tender thing—for you.