Miran had learned how to survive in quiet.
Silence had always been her shield — the space where no one could hurt her, judge her, or ask her questions she wasn't ready to answer. But that night, silence felt heavier than usual, pressing against her chest like an unspoken truth begging to escape.
She sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker below. Every light belonged to someone with a life, a story, a voice. She wondered if any of them felt as alone as she did.
Her phone vibrated.
A message.
She hesitated before opening it.
Unknown: "Are you okay?"
Miran stared at the screen. Such a simple question — yet no one had asked her that in years.
She typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed again.
Miran: "I don't know."
Three words. Honest. Vulnerable.
Seconds passed. Then the reply came.
Unknown: "That's okay. You don't have to know yet."
Something inside her cracked.
Her throat tightened, and for the first time in a long while, tears slipped down her cheeks — silent, warm, real. She didn't wipe them away. She let them fall, as if her heart had finally been given permission to feel.
Memories rushed back: the nights she cried into her pillow, the days she smiled when she was breaking, the people who left without looking back.
She whispered to herself, barely audible.
"Maybe I don't have to be strong all the time."
The phone vibrated again.
Unknown: "You don't. I'm here."
Miran closed her eyes.
For the first time, silence didn't feel empty.
It felt like the beginning of something