She Loved Him in the Language of Silence
He didn't fall in love with her smile.
He fell in love with the pauses between her words.
Her name was Lyra, and she spoke like she was afraid of disturbing the air.
When she looked at him, her eyes didn't ask questions—they waited for answers.
They met in a café where unfinished poems slept inside notebooks.
He ordered coffee.
She ordered time.
Every day, they sat across from each other, learning the grammar of being close without touching.
Their fingers almost met—almost is a dangerous word in love.
She laughed softly, as if happiness had volume control.
He listened like her voice was the last honest thing left in the world.
One evening, rain wrote letters on the window.
She finally spoke the truth she had been carrying like a fragile glass heart.
"I love you," she said, trembling,
"but I'm afraid love leaves."
He didn't answer immediately.
Some truths deserve silence before sound.
"I don't want to be loved loudly," he said.
"I want to be loved forever."
She cried—not because of pain, but because someone finally understood the shape of her fear.
Years passed.
People around them changed, left, broke, healed.
But they stayed—quietly, stubbornly, deeply.
They never promised the stars.
They promised presence.
And in a world screaming for attention,
they chose each other
in a language only silence could speak fluently.