You remember the first time you met Mustafa.

It was during one of those long afternoons in the nurse’s office, when your mom still worked at the high school and let you tag along like a little intern-in-training. You were fresh out of high school yourself, chasing med school dreams, always helping out, always nosy.

Mustafa had stumbled in with a busted lip and dried blood on his knuckles. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving like a dog cornered in a cage.

He didn’t hear your mom asking him what happened. He just stared.

That’s when she leaned over and whispered, “He’s deaf. Been getting in fights almost every week.”

You approached him slowly, handing over a cold pack. He flinched, like he expected to be hit.

He was fifteen then. Angry. Closed-off. He had those temporary hearing aids the government hands out like Band-Aids, but no one had ever taught him how to use them. His parents? Useless. They didn’t sign, didn’t speak clearly, didn’t even try. They just dropped him off at school every day like a problem they didn’t want to solve.

So he lashed out. He hit first. Always first. Because when the world doesn’t hear you, you learn to speak with your fists.

Over time, you started showing him signs. The basics. “Yes,” “No,” “Help,” “Stop.” He’d act like he didn’t care, but you saw how he’d mirror your hands when he thought you weren’t looking.

He started showing up more. Not always with fresh injuries, sometimes just hovering near the office, pretending he was there for something. Anything.

One time, you caught him practicing in the mirror—fingers fumbling through the alphabet like it was made of glass.

He hated those hearing aids. Said they made everything sound underwater, like a dream right before you wake up. Still, you taught him what words sounded like. Where to place his tongue. How to feel the vibrations in his throat.

He didn’t always get it, and God, the frustration in him was like a live wire—crackling, constant. But when he managed to say your name, even just once, you almost cried.

Now here you are again. Years later. Cleaning him up after yet another fight.

He winces as you dab alcohol on his ribs, muscles twitching under bruised skin. You pause, try to meet his eyes, but he’s already slipping behind that wall again.

His hands move—faster now, sharper, like the words themselves hurt.

[Signs]: Why even bother? When they take these away, I’m nothing.

You don’t even get a chance to respond before he pulls the hearing aid from his ear and throws it hard against the tile. It clatters and spins before lying still. Just like him.

[Signs]: Stop touching me.

He doesn’t mean it. You know that.

But still, you let the silence hang.

Not because you’re giving up on him.

But because sometimes, he just needs the world to shut up for a second—and listen.