#mute

There were no orders, no reports. No questions. He crossed the room in three long steps, boots silent on the rugs. When she stepped forward, he met her halfway.

Her arms wrapped around him, sudden and full, and he folded her in like she had always belonged in the hollow of his chest.

No words.

Just warmth. The kind that crept in quietly. The kind that stayed.

She smelled of gunpowder and winter air, of earth and distance. Her face pressed to the place where his heartbeat lived. And he held her, fiercely and carefully all at once.

"You're home," he murmured, a breath into her hair.

She only nodded, her face hidden, her silence a language he had long since learned to speak.

He closed his eyes.

And in the stillness, the base no longer felt so quiet.

It was never announced when she chose to be silent. The first time it happened around him, it was a quiet morning, the kind when snow gathers thick and soft against the base’s windows, muffling the world outside. Inside, his men moved with subdued energy, preparing for missions, checking equipment, their voices low and routine. She was there visiting him, still early in their fragile beginning, weaving excuses as reasons to see each other. Hers that day was simple enough, that she needed information on some obscure protocols’ buyer, a pretext that barely veiled the truth of her desire to be near him. She hid that desire well, scattering it beneath bursts of energetic chatter with the men around them, laughter masking the quiet ache he sensed beneath.

Sylus noticed it first, how she had gone quiet. Not just still, but silent in a way that felt deliberate. She stood near the equipment table, her fingers grazing the surface of a datasheet, eyes distant. When someone asked her a question, she responded with a nod, a gesture, but no voice. The rest of the men exchanged uncertain glances.

He didn’t ask. Not then.

Later, when the day's noise had softened and the base was humming low with evening quiet, he knocked gently at her door. Not urgent. Just presence.

She opened it. The lights inside were dim. She hadn’t spoken a word all day. But now, her fingers moved.

"I’m sorry."

She signed it quickly, but her hands lingered mid-air after, hesitant.

Sylus stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand.”

The words fell into the space between them like a warm blanket. She watched him closely, searching for anything in his voice that might hint at frustration or confusion. But she found none. Only quiet care.

“Will you teach me?” he asked.

Her brows lifted.

“Just a few signs,” he added, sheepish. “So I know how to listen.”

She smiled then, small and true. The kind that curled her lip just slightly and reached her eyes. Then she stepped aside, inviting him in fully. He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, knees close.

She began with his name. How to sign it. His fingers fumbled the first time, but she didn’t laugh. She took his hand, corrected him gently.

They went slowly.

Words like: okay. hungry. safe. stay.

And then, a pause. Her fingers brushed against his, more deliberate now.

“You see me?” she asked, hands shaping each word.

Sylus looked at her.

And signed back; clumsy but clear:

“I... see... you.”

Not just the silence. Not just the hands that spoke. But her.

All of her.

The days that followed were stitched together with small, quiet moments, each a step closer to understanding her silent language.

Sylus sat before the cracked mirror in his room, fingers fumbling awkwardly as he tried to form the signs she had patiently taught him: good morning. His brow furrowed in concentration, the shape of the words foreign and fragile between his hands.

She appeared beside him, watching with a soft smile. When his hands wavered, she reached out, guiding his fingers gently, their skin brushing. The touch sent a warmth threading through him, mingling with the frustration of clumsy attempts.

“Again,” she signed, eyes bright.

He repeated the gesture, slower this time, lips parting to catch her silent encouragement.

Later, in the quiet solitude of the base, Sylus found himself tracing new shapes, I missed you, against the dim light. The words felt heavier, layered with the ache that had settled in his chest.

One evening, seated side by side, he gathered courage. Turning to her, he signed carefully, fingers trembling, “You’re… safe… with me.”

Her eyes glistened, moisture pooling like fragile glass. With a trembling hand, she signed back, “I know.”

No words spoken. No sounds made.

But in that silent exchange, everything was said.

The aftermath of the mission settled over the base like a thick fog, dulling even the hum of machinery. Sylus moved through the muted halls, the quiet pressing heavily against his chest. For days, she had been silent, not the peaceful kind of silence, but a fortress, built strong and high around her. No words came from her lips, no explanations, only distant glances that cut sharper than any blade.

His mind had been elsewhere during the mission, fragmented by the weight of her absence in their conversations, her silence haunting him like a shadow. He missed crucial details, hesitated at moments that demanded precision, and faltered when clarity was needed most. The failure was a bitter reminder that the distance between them wasn’t just emotional, it had tangible consequences.

Each step through the base echoed with his frustration, not just with the mission’s outcome, but with himself for letting his focus slip. More than that, he feared the widening gulf between them, the growing silence that seemed to push them further apart with every passing hour.

One evening, the tension finally broke.

He confronted her, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, words spilling out faster than he could stop them. His questions demanded answers, sought the reason behind her silence and the cold space she now occupied.

“Why won’t you speak to me?.... What am I supposed to do? You’re here, but it’s like you are not.” He stepped forward with quiet care, the sudden rush of words ebbing from his lips like a broken stream. His hands reached for hers, warm and steady, enclosing them gently within his own. Without a word more, they settled onto the floor, two souls drawn close in the hush of the room, facing one another in a silence as he waited for her to respond as he always did.

But she didn’t respond with words.

Her hands moved instead, sharp, deliberate, a storm of sign language cutting through the tension like blades. The silent language was fierce, a shield built from pain and distance. It spoke of walls, of a heart retreating from the world, and of fear buried beneath layers of quiet. But he did not understand, he did not yet know all the words of her language.

He shook his head slowly, the weight of longing softening his gaze. Bringing her hands gently to his chest, he held them there as if anchoring himself to her. “No,” he whispered, voice low and earnest, “please, say the words, I want to hear you. do not disappear.”

She met his eyes with a quiet plea, her hands slipping free from his grasp to circle gently around her own neck, then gesturing away as if pushing the weight of words from her. Her lips parted again and again, but no sound came, and he waited patiently. 

“Sometimes... it’s heavy.” She whispered.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, fragile and trembling, as she fought back tears that threatened to spill. she slowly moved her hands

“Sometimes the silence is the only way I feel I can breathe.”

Her vulnerability hung between them like a fragile thread, delicate yet unbreakable.

Sylus met her gaze, caught in that fragile moment where uncertainty wavered between them. For a heartbeat, he did not know what to say or do, then, as he saw the quiet ache in her eyes, his own frustration softened and melted away. Slowly, deliberately, he drew closer, pulling her gently to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. His lips brushed softly, a whispered promise carried in silence.

“Then I’ll breathe with you,” he promised, voice low and steady. “In silence, if that is what you need.”

They sank down together on the cold floor, her on top of him, the silence folding around them, not as a barrier, but a shared breath, a sanctuary.

In that quiet space, words no longer mattered.

Only the soft rhythm of their heartbeats, beating in tandem, speaking what neither dared say aloud.

dividers by @uzmacchiato