I’ve always been surrounded by noise. Engines. Cameras. Fans. Life at 300 km/h doesn’t leave much room for silence.

Then I met her.

She didn’t speak much—at first, not at all. I thought maybe she just didn’t like me. Turns out, she has selective mutism and anxiety. Heavy stuff. But she never felt heavy to me. More like… a quiet place I didn’t know I needed.

She typed most of what she wanted to say. Left little notes in my jacket pockets. Her eyes did the rest. You’d be surprised how much someone can say without a single word. She'd squeeze my hand in loud rooms. Rest her head on my shoulder during flights. Her silence was never empty—it was full of meaning.

One night after a race in Singapore, we sat on the hotel balcony, legs tangled, city lights flickering below us. She handed me her phone. Just a message on the screen.

"I feel safe with you."

I didn’t know what to say, so I just kissed her hair and stayed still. Sometimes stillness is enough.

It’s not always easy. She has days where leaving the bed feels impossible. Days where words just won’t come. But I’ve learned to be patient. To listen differently.

She doesn’t need to say she loves me—I feel it in every glance, every small brave thing she does just to stay in the world.

And me? I tell her every chance I get.

Like tonight, when I find her curled up on my couch, eyes tired but soft, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

I kneel in front of her, brush the hair from her face, and say softly, just loud enough for her and no one else:

"You don’t ever have to say a word for me to hear you. I love you exactly as you are."