The thing about silence is, people think it's safe.
No one gets hurt if you don't speak.
Right?
That's what I've always kept telling myself.
But now her smile's in my mind — the one she flashed me on that stairs. Bright. Careless. Vulnerable as paper.
And under it.
Something snapped.
I saw it.
I know I saw it.
And I still turned and walked away.
I've been replaying it ever since.
The curl of her arms around her knees. The stammered words, "I'm fine." The look she gave me, like she hoped I'd say something — anything.
But I didn't.
I stood there, helpless, as always.
I keep opening the chat.
Her message remains.
"Hey."
I keep thinking, If I do speak now, will it be too late? Will it sound insincere?
I write another response.
"Sorry, are you alright?"
No.
"I saw you."
Delete.
"You don't have to act with me."
Delete.
It's not that I don't care.
It's because I care too much and I have no idea how to do it without destroying the whole thing.
That's always been my problem.
I remember something from when I was ten years old. My best friend cried in front of me after his parents fought. I said nothing. I thought that if I did not look, it would be gone.
He never talked to me after that.
I learned early on that silence keeps people from hating you.
But doesn't keep them from leaving.
After school, I watched her in class. Her energy was back — louder. She cracked jokes, twirled hair, smiled like she hadn't been crying on a stairwell 24 hours ago.
Everyone laughed with her.
Nobody saw her.
Except me.
And yet still, I said nothing.
If only I had said something… anything… would it have made a difference?
Or was I already too late then?