The Day Amara Learned to Listen to Silence
Amara noticed the silence before she noticed anything else.
It wasn't peaceful. It didn't settle gently or hum softly in the background. It sat between them—heavy, alert, almost watchful. The kind of silence that waited for someone to acknowledge it and grew louder when no one did.
Daniel was beside her, scrolling.
The glow from his phone carved his face into two halves: one sharp with blue light, the other swallowed by shadow. His thumb moved in a steady rhythm—up, pause, tap, up again—like muscle memory.
Amara watched him longer than she meant to.
"Did you hear what I said?" she asked.
"Hmm?" Daniel murmured, eyes still locked on the screen.
She inhaled. "I asked if you're coming with me tomorrow."
He frowned slightly. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"To where?"
She leaned back into the couch, the cushion sighing beneath her weight. "Never mind."
That phrase had become her refuge. It asked for nothing. It expected nothing. It protected her from disappointment.
Daniel finally looked up. "Sorry. I'm just tired."
She nodded. She always nodded.
The food she'd cooked sat untouched on the table, cooling into something uninviting. An hour earlier, she'd imagined them eating together, talking, laughing. She'd imagined him asking about her day.
Instead, she'd eaten alone.
"You've been on your phone all evening," she said quietly.
Daniel sighed and flipped the phone face down, like an apology he didn't fully mean. "Amara, it's not that deep."
She stared at the wall opposite them, at a thin crack running from the ceiling downward. Barely noticeable—unless you were looking for it.
"Okay," she said.
Daniel relaxed instantly. "You know I'm here, right?"
Her chest tightened.
Later, as Daniel slept easily beside her, Amara stared at the ceiling, listening to the fan, the distant traffic, the space inside her chest where words had gone to hide.
Silence, she realized, wasn't empty.
It was full of everything she hadn't said.
And deep down, a quiet truth stirred:
This is how it begins.