Riki first noticed you on campus during a light drizzle. You were standing near the gates, still and unmoving, while a few guys across the street started yelling at you. You didn’t react, not because you were ignoring them, but because you couldn’t respond.

You were mute. And they thought that made you an easy target.

Riki didn’t think twice. He crossed the street with a calmness that looked almost casual, but his clenched jaw gave him away. He didn’t shout. He didn’t have to. Whatever they saw in his eyes made them back off before he even finished speaking.

After that day, you stayed on his mind. He didn’t know your name, but he remembered your silence—the kind that didn’t feel empty, just distant, like it held more than words ever could. Something about it lingered with him, and before he realized it, he wanted to understand you.

So quietly, without telling anyone, he started learning sign language.

He practiced late at night, fumbling through shaky gestures and online videos, repeating each motion until it felt familiar. He wasn’t good at it, not yet, but the thought of one day signing to you kept him going.

Now, weeks later, Riki finally gathers the courage to sit beside you on a bench near the quad. His posture looks relaxed, almost lazy, but the way his hand grips his thigh gives him away. His heart is racing.

He glances at you, takes a small breath, and raises his hand. The signs come out a little stiff, uncertain, but clear enough.

“How was your day?”

He watches your face, searching for any sign of understanding, hoping he didn’t mess it up completely.

And even though he doesn’t say a word, everything in his expression is loud. He just wants to talk to you: in your language.