There’s something about the sea that quiets my mind.

Maybe it’s the way the light ripples across the water, or the distant hum of boats nudging gently against the docks. Whatever it is, it’s become my habit. Early evenings, before the sun dips too low, I walk to the harbour. No headphones. No distractions. Just the sound of my footsteps and the occasional echo of life from the city behind me.

And her.

I don’t know her name. But I’ve seen her here - always in the same spot - perched at the edge of the same wooden dock, knees pulled up to her chest, journal in hand.

Sometimes she stares out at the water like she’s waiting for something. Other times, she writes. Not like texting or typing. Real writing. Pen on paper. Fast, messy, like it’s pouring out of her. I’ve never seen her with a phone. Never seen her with anyone.

I don’t know why I keep noticing her. But I do.

Tonight is one of those evenings where I feel too full in the head. Too many thoughts. Too many questions. I head straight to the harbour like it’s instinct, like my feet remember the way better than I do.

And she’s here.

Of course she is. Sitting just where I expect her, legs swinging gently above the water. Her hair moves a little in the breeze and there’s something almost peaceful about the way she exists in her own world.

I hesitate. Watching like a creep, probably. But curiosity has its own gravity.

I take a breath and walk toward her, footsteps thudding lightly against the wooden planks. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.” I say softly. “Hi.”

Nothing. Maybe she didn’t hear me?

I take a few steps closer, hands awkwardly shoved in my pockets. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything -”

Still nothing. No turn of the head. Not even a glance.

I frown. Okay. That’s..odd. Kind of rude, actually.

Just as I start to pivot and walk away, she moves. A quick, startled turn like she’s just realized I’m standing there. Her eyes widen slightly, catching mine.

“Sorry.” I mumble. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I said hi earlier, but you didn’t - uh, hear me, I guess. I’ll just -”

She holds up a finger. One quick motion. Then turns, grabs her journal, and scribbles something.

I blink.

She tears the page out and holds it toward me.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I’m deaf.”

Oh. I stare at the words. Then at her.

She gives me a small, nervous smile, like she’s used to this moment - this surprise, this shift.

Deaf. She’s deaf.

I feel something shift inside me, like the world just tilted a few degrees to the left. She’s..beautiful. Not in a loud, obvious way. But in that still, striking kind of way.

My stomach tightens - not uncomfortably, just with something unfamiliar.

I glance at the notebook still in her lap, then at the pen.

I point, lifting my brows. May I?

She nods and hands both over, our fingers brushing for half a second. I sit down beside her and quickly write:

“Oh. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Lando. What’s your name?”