WHAT SILENCE REVEALS
1306 Words
MATT'S POV
Raven Blackwood looks at me like she’s already read the worst pages of my story.
Not in a curious way. Not even suspicious.
She just… sees through me.
It started maybe two weeks ago. We were sitting across from each other in English — working on this mythology project Ms. Chen threw together at the last minute. I was flipping through some pages about Persephone, and I glanced up.
She was already looking at me.
But it wasn’t normal. She wasn’t zoning out, or lost in thought, or even checking to see if I had finished my section.
She was looking right at me.
Like she knew something I didn’t.
Like she’d been waiting to be noticed.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That people look sometimes. That maybe I had something on my face.
But that night, I saw her again — on my screen this time.
Her i********: story was just… black. A blank slide with white text:
> “you ever feel like you’re inside your own body but completely somewhere else?”
No emojis. No hashtags. No song. No attempt to make it poetic.
Just that.
The next one was a blurry photo of her sketchbook. A figure in a dark hoodie, no face, standing in a hallway full of shadows.
And under it:
> “not everything haunted wants to be found.”
I stared at it for longer than I should’ve.
Because the Raven I knew — the Raven everyone knew — was supposed to be cheerful. Quiet, sure. A little weird. But warm. Bubbly, even. The type of girl who carried snacks in her bag and made hand-drawn birthday cards.
This? This was something else entirely.
This was a signal.
And I couldn’t tell if it was a cry for help… or a warning.
We weren’t close. Not really.
I mean, we shared a few classes. Group projects. She knew my name. I knew hers. But there were no lunch table moments. No DMs. Just polite school stuff. Background noise.
Except now she wasn’t background. She was sharp and still and watching.
And I was watching back.
At school, it was more obvious.
She walked alone now. Not just “introvert” alone — deliberately alone. Like she wanted space so badly, she built a wall around herself no one else could see.
Even Ruth — her so-called best friend — barely looked at her anymore. I caught them passing each other in the hallway and neither of them even slowed down. No wave. No smile. Nothing.
That’s when I knew something was really wrong.
Because Raven and Ruth were practically sisters before. I remember watching them laugh so hard in the cafeteria once they both nearly choked on soda. Everyone said Raven was Ruth’s anchor — kept her grounded when her head got too loud.
And now?
Now Raven looked like she was drifting out to sea and no one was holding the rope.
We had our second project meeting the next afternoon — library, back corner, same table. I showed up early. Five minutes early. On purpose.
She was already there.
Hood up. Head down. Headphones in.
Still as glass.
I slid into the chair across from her and said, “Hey.”
She looked up slowly, removed one earbud, and nodded.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” I said, instantly regretting how that sounded.
She didn’t flinch. “It’s a grade. I care about those.”
“Right,” I mumbled, opening my notebook like it had answers.
We worked in silence for a while. Every so often, I glanced up.
Her eyes flicked across the page like she was reading too fast — like she wasn’t really reading at all. And her hand kept tapping the table — thumb to finger, thumb to finger — like a metronome only she could hear.
I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.
But I didn’t.
“You okay?” I asked.
She looked up so fast I thought I’d said something wrong.
Then she blinked, tilted her head slightly, and said:
“Why do people always ask that when they already know the answer?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
She went back to writing like the question had never been asked.
And I sat there wondering why I suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about her.
That night, I checked her i********: again.
I don’t know why.
Habit, maybe. Curiosity.
Or something closer to guilt.
There it was — another black slide.
> “They say you only drown if you stop fighting.
But what if the water just keeps rising anyway?”
No one had liked it. Not even her usual handful of quiet friends. Not Ruth. Not anyone.
Just silence. Like the whole world saw it and chose to look away.
Except me.
I didn’t tap past it right away. I stared.
And then I clicked on her profile and scrolled.
It was like watching someone deconstruct a diary backwards. You could see the brightness fade — one post at a time.
Photos of sunsets became blurry photos of shadows.
Ed Sheeran lyrics became redacted quotes — words scribbled out in digital ink.
Even her selfies changed. Her smile faded. Her eyes got darker.
Like she wasn’t trying to look pretty anymore — just real.
And real was not okay.
The next day, I brought it up.
Not directly. Just a quiet question as we walked out of the library together.
“Do you ever feel like no one really sees you?”
She stopped walking.
Just for a second.
Not long.
But long enough for me to notice the freeze in her shoulders.
Then she looked at me and said, “All the time.”
It wasn’t dramatic.
Wasn’t bitter.
Just… honest.
Then she kept walking.
And I followed.
We didn’t talk much after that.
But something had shifted.
She started sitting closer during our project sessions. Still quiet. Still guarded. But closer. Her questions got more specific. Her eyes didn’t avoid mine as much.
And sometimes — only sometimes — I’d catch her looking again.
That stare.
Not romantic. Not creepy.
Just… like she knew something. Something heavy. Something I couldn’t see.
And I’d find myself wondering if she looked at everyone like that, or just me.
One day after school, we crossed paths in the parking lot. She had her sketchbook under her arm and that same stormcloud expression on her face.
“Heading home?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Eventually.”
I don’t know what made me say it — maybe the way her voice cracked on that one word — but I said, “Wanna walk?”
She looked at me for a second like I’d offered her a map to a place she didn’t believe existed.
Then she nodded.
And we walked.
It wasn’t anything special — just down the block, past the corner store, through the lot behind the gym. She didn’t talk much, but I didn’t either. There was no music, no pretense, no need to fill the air.
We just… walked.
And for once, silence didn’t feel heavy.
It felt shared.
At one point, she said, “People don’t really like silence.”
I glanced at her. “You do.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like noise pretending to be comfort.”
That stuck with me.
I didn’t even know what it meant.
But it stuck.
---
Later that night, I checked her story again.
Just one post.
A photo of her drawing — the same faceless hooded figure again, this time standing at the edge of a cliff.
Under it:
> “You ever wish someone would just ask what you’re not saying?”
And I thought:
I’m asking.
I am.
But I still don’t know what answer I’m looking for.
- Writer
