(Where silence starts to stretch. And not everything that's calm is comforting.)
"Sometimes quiet isn't peace. Sometimes it's just the sound of holding your breath for too long."
The week after the dance blurred softly, like pencil smudged across a journal page. Nothing was loud. Nothing shattered. But things didn't feel quite right, either.
It was in the way Viera stopped finishing her sentences.
In the way Kade started flinching at certain sounds again—barking laughter, a loud slamming locker, the squeak of gym shoes against polished floor.
They were still close. Still together. Still… them.
But something was quiet.
Not the safe kind. The kind that waits.
Monday
They sat at their usual table in the library. Rain tapped the windows like restless fingers.
Viera skimmed a poetry book. Kade sketched stick figures in the corner of his math notes, pretending to study. Her thigh brushed his, but he didn't lean into it like usual.
She noticed.
"Kade," she said, not looking up, "where did you go just now?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"In your head," she clarified, flipping a page. "You looked like you were miles away."
"I guess… I was." He smiled faintly. "You ever feel like you're just floating? Like… not sad. Just—adrift?"
She set the book down.
And for a moment, she didn't say anything.
Then quietly, "Yeah. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a room made of glass. And I don't want to move too loud, in case it all cracks."
He looked at her then. And saw it: the faintest shimmer in her eyes.
Not tears.
Just weight.
He nodded, once.
They didn't talk about it more. But she reached over, took his pencil, and started drawing something on the edge of his notebook. It was terrible—uneven, goofy, barely recognizable.
But it made him smile.
He didn't feel adrift anymore.
Wednesday
The school hallways were full of the usual noise: lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone arguing over grades near the front office.
Kade walked with his hood up again.
It wasn't cold.
He didn't know why he did it.
A group of basketball guys brushed past him, one of them muttering "weirdo" under his breath, just loud enough to sting.
He didn't respond.
Didn't look.
He just kept walking.
Viera found him later under the stairwell, chewing the string on his hoodie, headphones in, staring at the floor.
She didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside him.
He took one earbud out.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she replied.
Long silence.
"Want to come over?" she asked softly.
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
That Evening
Viera's room was warm. Her lights were soft, golden. A candle burned on the desk—vanilla and cinnamon. Kade sat on the floor, back to the bed, watching her as she put a vinyl record on.
Old music. Slow piano.
She turned, hair messy from the wind, oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I'm trying."
She walked over, sat on the floor across from him, and took his hands.
"You don't have to try around me."
"I know," he whispered.
But his voice cracked a little.
She didn't cry. She didn't gasp. She just leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him and held him there. For a long time. Like her arms were the only structure he needed.
Then she pulled back, eyes playful. "Now, I believe you're overdue for something."
He blinked. "What?"
Her grin sharpened. "You laughed at me when I tripped earlier."
"I did not!"
"You snorted."
"I didn't mean to!"
"Doesn't matter." She pounced.
The tickling was quick, ruthless, and full of laughter—real laughter, sharp and stumbling and breathless.
He squirmed, curled up, begged, wheezed out apologies.
She only stopped when he flopped sideways, panting.
"You're evil," he murmured, grinning.
"And you're adorable when you're flustered."
Friday
They walked home together. It was sunset. The sky looked like a bleeding bruise—violet and gold, streaked with pink.
Kade reached out and laced their fingers together. He didn't ask. Didn't speak.
She looked at their hands.
Then leaned against his arm and said, "This… this is my favorite kind of quiet."
He looked down at her.
"Me too."
But somewhere, deep in the school—behind one half-open door, in a classroom long emptied—
Someone had written his name on the chalkboard.
And underneath it:
"People like you don't belong in her world."
End of Chapter 21 – The Quiet Isn't Always Safe