She had stopped speaking to most people after that. Whatever “that” was — no one asked anymore. She wore it in her posture, the silence in her eyes, the way she flinched when the world got too loud. No one tried to reach her anymore. Not teachers, not friends, not even the counselor who spoke to her like she was breakable glass. She just kept to herself. Then she met him.

Of all places — a dusty comic shop she wandered into to escape the rain. She was flipping through a worn-out volume when a loud clang echoed from the back, followed by a rushed, “Oh — sorry!” A tall boy with messy brown dreadlocks stumbled out of the employee room, holding a guitar case and a soda. He blinked when he saw her. Grinned like she wasn’t a stranger. Like she was someone.

“Hey,” he said with a voice like honey and late-night radio. “Didn’t think I’d see anyone cool in here today!” She stared.

“I’m Tom,” he added, tapping his guitar case proudly. “I play lead. My younger twin brother, Bill’s singer in the family. He’s in Star Research and he’s usually into loud girls. Me? I’m into loud music and quiet girls, apparently.”

Silence.

He tilted his head, that easy smile never fading. “Why’re you so quiet?” he asked, not cruel, not nosy — just curious. Like he wanted to understand, not pry. And she didn’t speak. But her eyes did. And Tom didn’t push. He just nodded and said softly, like it was no big deal:

“You don’t have to talk. I’ll talk. You can just… listen!”