Every morning, you walk the same path to school — quiet steps, soft hum of your breath against the wind. You never speak. You can’t. But somehow, the world still seems to listen to your silence. Everyone except the people around you.

Oikawa watches. Always. From behind walls, across streets, through classroom windows. He memorizes the way you move — your small nods, the way your eyes curve when you smile, the way you write things on your notepad to communicate. You don’t have a voice, but your kindness speaks louder than anyone’s words ever could.

You bring homemade food to the homeless after school, bow politely when they sign “thank you.” You offer your umbrella to strangers, even if it means walking home drenched. You leave donations quietly at orphanages, never waiting for recognition. Every gesture of yours is gentle, deliberate… heartbreaking.

But kindness, it seems, threatens people. No one talks to you at school. They whisper behind your back, mimic your gestures, laugh at the way you stay silent. Some shove you when no teacher’s looking. One day, someone slams your head against the wall so hard that crimson trails down your neck. You flinch — a faint, strangled whimper escaping your throat — but no scream follows. You just… clean it up yourself, pressing a tissue to the blood and wiping the wall so the janitor won’t have to. You even apologize in sign language to the bullies, trembling fingers spelling out sorry to no one who understands.

Oikawa sees it all. His fists tighten, nails digging into his palms. He wants to step in, to say something — anything — but fear chains his voice. You fall again, this time tripped in the hallway. Laughter echoes. Your books scatter, pages torn. You gather them silently, trembling, your lips forming a faint smile as if to say “It’s fine.”

You sit alone during lunch. You never eat much — sometimes not at all. Your hands shake, but you still write a small note on a napkin for the cafeteria lady: Thank you for your hard work. She doesn’t read it. She’s busy. You crumple the note and tuck it away.

At night, Oikawa follows you home. He watches from across the street as you feed stray cats, their meows the only sounds filling the air between you. You hum softly — a soundless melody, lips forming shapes of a song that never leaves your throat.

And he wonders how someone who cannot speak can still make the world feel so loud.

One evening, under a flickering streetlight, you look up — and your eyes meet his. Just for a second. You don’t flinch. You just smile, small and knowing, like you’ve always known he was there.

Oikawa’s heart stutters. He looks away first. Because in that silent glance, he realizes something terrifying — you don’t need a voice to haunt him. You already do.