Chapter 6 — A Language of Eyes
Days turned into weeks, and Seattle slowly began to bloom again after a stretch of cold rain. The air was crisp, filled with the smell of wet grass and coffee. For Arin, life started to feel different — lighter, warmer, alive.
He still heard people's thoughts sometimes, but they no longer crushed him. The chaos that once ruled his mind had quieted down to a low hum, and every moment he spent with Maya made it quieter still.
He didn't tell her about his ability. Not yet. It wasn't because he didn't trust her — he just didn't want her to look at him differently. He'd spent years wishing he could be normal, and around her, for the first time, he almost was.
---
That morning, he found her sitting outside the coffee shop, sketching something in her book. She looked peaceful, her scarf loosely wrapped around her neck, her hair falling over her face as she drew.
He brought her a cup of hot chocolate, placing it beside her sketchpad. "For the artist," he said with a grin.
She looked up, surprised, and then smiled. She quickly wrote on her small notebook:
> "You remembered what I like."
He sat beside her. "Of course. You made me breakfast, remember? It's only fair."
Her eyes softened. She gestured toward the notebook again and scribbled something else.
> "I draw you sometimes."
He blinked, caught off guard. "You what?"
She turned the page and, sure enough, there he was — sitting on the same bench by the lake, his expression thoughtful, eyes distant. The sketch was gentle, filled with emotion.
He looked at her, speechless. "That's… that's amazing, Maya."
She smiled, cheeks faintly pink. Then she wrote:
> "You always look like you're listening to something no one else can hear."
Arin froze for a moment, his smile fading slightly. It wasn't an accusation — just an observation. But it hit close.
He forced a small laugh. "Maybe I'm just good at pretending to listen."
She tilted her head, not entirely convinced, but she didn't press further. Instead, she smiled softly and took a sip of her drink.
---
Later, they walked together toward the park. The sun peeked through drifting clouds, painting golden spots on the ground. Maya hummed a tune under her breath — a soundless hum, more like a rhythm she carried in her movements.
As they reached the lake, she stopped suddenly and pointed at a group of children playing nearby. They were trying to feed ducks, giggling as the birds splashed about.
Arin smiled. "You like kids?"
She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining. Then she wrote:
> "They speak without words. Maybe that's why I understand them."
Her words lingered in his mind. There was so much truth in them — children didn't hide, didn't fake, didn't carry the weight of unspoken things.
They sat down near the edge of the lake, their reflections rippling in the water. For a while, Maya drew again while Arin skipped stones across the surface.
After a long silence, she suddenly placed her sketchbook on his lap. He looked down.
This time, she had drawn two faces — close together, eyes meeting. The detail was tender, almost romantic. He felt his heartbeat quicken.
He looked up at her. "Is that… us?"
She nodded slowly, not meeting his eyes this time. Her fingers fidgeted with the corner of her scarf.
The wind carried a faint chill. The air felt heavier now, charged with something unsaid.
He took a deep breath. "It's beautiful."
She looked up then, and their eyes met — really met. It wasn't just looking. It was speaking.
There were no words, no sound — but in her eyes, he saw a world. Warmth. Hope. Fear. And something deeper that neither of them dared to name yet.
He didn't move. Neither did she. But something inside both of them shifted — a small, quiet realization that they were no longer just two strangers who met by accident.
They were becoming something more.
---
Over the next few days, their time together became routine — yet nothing about it felt ordinary.
Morning coffee. Afternoon walks. Sketches shared, glances exchanged.
Sometimes they laughed over silly drawings. Sometimes they just sat side by side, watching the sun melt into the lake.
And every now and then, when their hands brushed accidentally, neither pulled away.
Arin began to notice how much he depended on those moments. Her presence had become his peace. Without her, the world seemed louder again.
He thought about telling her — about the voices, about how her silence quieted his world. But he didn't want to burden her. She had her own story, her own pain.
He still didn't know what had taken her voice away, and he never asked. He wanted her to tell him when she was ready.
---
One evening, as they sat together, the sun dipping below the horizon, Maya wrote something on her pad and slid it toward him.
> "Do you ever feel like we knew each other before?"
He read the words, smiling softly. "All the time," he said.
She nodded, looking at the lake. Then she wrote again:
> "Sometimes, silence feels familiar. Like I've shared it with you already."
He looked at her for a long time. "Maybe we have," he said quietly. "Maybe some souls find each other again and again until they finally listen."
Her eyes softened. She didn't write back this time — she just reached out and rested her hand on top of his.
The touch was small, barely there, but it spoke louder than any words could.
He felt that warmth again — that faint emotional echo, flowing through him like a whisper.
It wasn't just affection now. It was love — growing quietly, naturally, without asking permission.
---
That night, when he got home, Arin couldn't stop thinking about her. He lay in bed, listening to the rain outside.
For years, he'd heard thousands of voices, but none had stayed. None had meant anything.
Now, one silent woman had filled every quiet corner of his heart.
He smiled to himself, closing his eyes, letting her echo linger in his thoughts.
And for the first time, he realized — maybe love wasn't meant to be heard.
Maybe it was meant to be felt.