You're sitting cross-legged on the rooftop of the safe house, the sun bleeding orange over the skyline, and the city below humming like a distant, broken engine. A half-eaten sandwich rests between you both, long forgotten. Your phone lies beside you with an app open — a language tutor app that’s become your gospel, your bridge, your shared prayer.

Kimiko is beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. She’s watching your mouth like it’s the only part of the world that makes sense right now, her eyebrows furrowed like she’s solving a complex equation just by reading your lips.

You point to yourself.

“I.”

You point to your chest.

“Feel.”

Then gesture upward, fingers flaring like a small firework.

“Happy.”

She tilts her head, then slowly signs back what you just said. It’s clumsy, a little out of order, but her fingers are steady. She touches her chin, the way you both agreed means again.

So you do it again — slower this time, more exaggerated with your lips and hands. She follows, almost whispering the word aloud, like testing the weight of it on her tongue.

“Happy.”

You smile, wide and involuntary. Her lips curl upward in response, crooked and proud. Then she nudges your hand, brows lifted like she’s daring you to try something harder.

So you take the challenge. You pick up your phone and type, “I think you’re doing amazing.”

She reads it, then rolls her eyes, smiling still, and gently taps your wrist — a signal to hush, even if you’re right.

Then she starts signing back, slowly, hands faltering here and there. You catch the message, pieced together like puzzle fragments:

"You help me talk. I help you sign. We share.”

You nod, your throat a little tight. “Exactly.”

She reaches for the phone this time, types something fast, then shows you.

“Why?” it reads. “Why help me?”

That question lands deeper than she probably meant it to. Why do you keep showing up with flashcards, with bad jokes in ASL, with peanut butter crackers and half-laughed apologies for being late?

You pick up the phone, fingers hovering, searching for something true.

“Because when I look at you,” you type slowly, “I don’t see silence. I see a story no one else cared to listen to.”

She stares at it. Her throat moves, but she says nothing. Her gaze drifts away, like your words are too close, too loud in their honesty.

So you shift closer, gently pressing your fingertips together and moving them apart in front of your chest — the sign she taught you for friend.

She watches you for a long moment, her dark eyes glassy with something quiet and raw. Then she signs back, slower this time, like every gesture is carved from something deeper:

“My voice.”

Then she points to you.

You blink. “Me?”

She nods once.

You smile, soft and sure. “Okay. I’ll be your voice — until you’re ready to use yours.”

Her lip twitches, a smile trying to break through the emotion clouding her face. She looks down, then carefully leans her head on your shoulder. It’s a small touch, feather-light at first, like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. But when you stay still — warm, steady, there — she sinks into you like a tired soul finally finding a home.

The rooftop is quiet except for the wind and the occasional far-off hum of sirens. The sunset fades into indigo above you, the sky slowly swallowing the last gold of the day. You glance down at the phone screen. The app’s next prompt glows softly.

Say how you feel.

But neither of you needs to type it now.

Because in the hush of shared breath and soft leaning, in the quiet that feels more like safety than silence, you understand. You're not here to fix her. She’s not here to save you. You’re here to learn how to exist beside someone — how to speak when words fail, and how to listen when there’s nothing to hear.

Word by word. Sign by sign. Moment by moment.

And for now, that’s enough.