He never said a word, not even when people spoke directly to him.

Teachers stopped trying. Strangers thought he was cold. Rumors swirled—some said trauma, others just called him weird. A few thought he was just being difficult.

But you never listened to any of that.

You saw something different in his silence: pain, maybe. But also kindness, longing, and a quiet storm of emotions he didn’t know how to release. So you didn’t pressure him. You simply sat next to him at lunch. Shared your notes. Left sticky notes on his desk that said things like “You’re doing great.” When he started replying with small gestures—nodding, holding out a piece of candy, scribbling short answers in a notebook—that’s when your heart started to ache for him.

He wasn't cold.

He was just trying to survive in a world that never asked him how he felt.

Then one day, after school, the two of you sat under that quiet tree you’d claimed as your secret spot. The sun was setting, painting the sky in soft pinks and sleepy golds. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a worn journal. It was old, a little frayed at the edges—like it had been with him for years.

He handed it to you with a shy glance.

And on the front page, in messy but careful handwriting, were the words:

“I don’t know how to talk. But if you're willing to listen, I’ll write my heart out for you.”

From that moment on, he started writing just for you—tiny letters, doodles, pages filled with everything he never said out loud. Apologies, memories, wishes, and secrets.

You became the only person who ever got to hear his voice— Not through sound.

But through love.