THE QUIET KIND
1762 Words
MATT'S POV
My alarm goes off at 5:57 a.m., even though I don’t need to be up until 6:30.
I always set it early—gives me time to lie there and think about all the things I’m not ready to feel.
There’s a comfort in being tired. It keeps everything dull, manageable.
Grief is sharper when you’re well-rested.
June’s alarm goes off in the next room at 6:30 sharp. She’s ten and wakes up like she’s been training for the military. No snooze button. No groaning.
Just the sound of tiny feet hitting the hardwood, and then the door slamming shut as she races to the bathroom.
Our house is small. Uncle Ron doesn’t say much. He sleeps on the couch most nights, even though he has a room. Claims it’s better for his back.
I think it’s because he’s afraid to close the door. Like if something happens to us, he won’t hear it.
By 7:05, June’s sitting at the table in her hoodie, eating cereal with her hair in a sideways ponytail and mismatched socks. The kid’s chaos, but she’s my chaos.
I pour coffee, black, two sugars.
She watches me. Not like a kid. More like a little scientist observing an experiment.
“You don’t sleep anymore,” she says, spoon hovering midair.
“Sure I do,” I lie.
She takes a bite and says, “Liar,” through a mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
I laugh—quietly. It's the only laugh I’ve got energy for today.
School is a routine I wear like armor.
Walk the halls. Stay on top of assignments. Get to football practice. Pretend everything is fine.
People think being quiet makes you mysterious, like you’re deep or interesting. Really, it just means you’ve learned not to waste words on people who won’t listen.
I get straight As. I’m in the top 1%. I read books about gods and monsters and people who burn everything down just to feel something.
They call me dependable. Focused. Stable.
That’s the word people use when they have no idea how tired you are.
We’re in English class when I first really notice her.
Raven Blackwood.
She’s been in my classes since freshman year. Always quiet, always near the window. I never thought much of it—just another introvert, head down, earbuds in, never raising her hand.
But today, something feels different.
We’re paired for a mythology project. A safe topic for me. Not so much for her.
I say, “Greek mythology?” and she says, “Yeah. Sure,” like it’s nothing.
But her voice sticks in my head. It’s soft. Frayed around the edges, like paper that’s been folded too many times.
I glance at her once during class. She’s not looking at me, but something about the way she’s holding her pencil—tight, like it might slip....makes me uneasy.
It’s not attraction. It’s not curiosity.
It’s something heavier.
Like I’ve just noticed a thread that’s about to snap.
After school, I walk to the animal shelter.
It’s one of the only places where I don’t have to pretend.
Dogs don’t care if you’re sad. They just want you to sit in their kennel for twenty minutes and scratch behind their ears.
There’s a pit mix named Leo who follows me around like I’m his emotional support human. He doesn’t bark. Doesn’t whine. Just sits beside me like he gets it.
Some days, I wonder if he’s the only one who does.
When I get home, June’s sprawled across the floor with a notebook and colored pens, writing what she calls her “Field Journal.”
She glances up. “Raven was weird today.”
I pause. “Raven?”
“Blackwood. You know her.”
I pretend I don’t. “What do you mean?”
“She looked like she was underwater. Like her brain was somewhere else.”
I nod, go to the fridge. “Maybe she’s just tired.”
“Maybe she’s sad.”
I close the fridge without taking anything. “You ever think you’re too smart for your own good?”
“All the time,” she says, grinning.
I sit on my bed that night and open a book I’ve already read twice. Greek myths. This chapter is about Icarus.
The boy who flew too close to the sun.
Everyone always blames him for falling.
No one ever talks about how lonely he must’ve been before he even left the ground.
At school the next day, I catch sight of Raven again.
Not in class. Just passing through the hallway.
She moves like a shadow. Like someone trying not to take up space.
Her eyes brush over me. Just once.
She looks away fast.
And for a second—I don’t know why—it feels like we have the same secret.
In practice, Coach yells more than usual. Says I’m distracted. Says I’m “off my game.”
I nod. Push harder. Try not to throw up.
There’s a moment when I’m running drills where everything spins. Just a flash. But it’s enough.
I stop. Bend over. Breathe like the air is too thick.
“You good?” someone calls out.
I nod.
Liar.
That night, I don’t eat dinner. Uncle Ron doesn’t ask why. He just sets a plate on the counter and disappears back into the living room.
June eyes me like she knows I won’t touch it.
“You ever think people like Raven are the smartest ones?” she asks out of nowhere.
I blink. “What?”
“She doesn’t talk much, but she sees everything. I think she understands stuff the rest of us don’t.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
But for some reason, I agree.
On Friday, Raven and I are supposed to meet in the library for our project. She’s late. Ten minutes. Then twenty.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
But when she finally walks in, she looks like she’s been somewhere far away. Her hair’s messy. Her eyes are red.
She doesn’t say sorry.
Just sits down. Opens a notebook.
I want to ask her if she’s okay.
But I don’t.
Because I wouldn’t know what to do with the answer.
We work in silence. She writes slowly, neatly. Doesn’t look up once.
I find myself watching her hand move across the page. Her fingers tremble slightly. She presses too hard with the pen.
And for a second, I want to say something.
I want to say, You don’t have to hold everything in.
But I don’t.
I just watch. And wonder what she’s holding back that I’ll never know.
Later, in the hallway, she walks ahead of me. Not noticing.
Someone bumps into her. She stumbles. Doesn’t say anything.
Keeps walking.
And I realize....
She’s not okay.
But she’s doing everything she can to make sure no one sees it.
That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time, my thoughts aren’t about me. Or June. Or the pressure. Or the grief.
They’re about her.
About how someone can be that quiet, and still carry so much weight in their eyes.
There’s a sound I’ve started hearing when everything else goes quiet.
Not like ringing in your ears.
More like a pressure.
Like silence isn’t really empty — it’s just too full of the things no one’s saying.
Saturday mornings used to mean pancakes and cartoons.
Now they mean bills, cleaning, and checking June’s homework even though she insists she doesn’t need help.
I glance at her across the table. She’s chewing the end of a pencil and scowling at a math sheet.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she mutters.
“What thing?” I say, not looking up from my own pile of overdue reading.
“That thing where you’re here but not really.”
I set the book down.
June doesn’t meet my eyes. She taps her pencil three times, then says, “You used to laugh more.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I just say, “I’ll make pancakes.”
Later, while I’m flipping batter that’s slightly too thick, I realize I haven’t touched my mythology notes — or the group project — since the library.
Raven did most of the writing last time. I contributed facts, sources, structure. But her notes…
There was something about her handwriting. Small, precise. Like each letter was fighting for control.
And she never once looked up.
But I did.
More than once.
And I hate how I keep remembering that.
I take June to the park that afternoon because she needs it and because I don’t know what to do with my own restlessness.
She runs ahead toward the swings while I sit on a bench, hoodie pulled tight, earbuds in but no music playing.
Just… quiet.
That’s when I see her.
Raven.
She’s on the opposite side of the park, sitting alone on a picnic table, sketchbook in her lap.
Her pencil moves slowly, like she’s drawing something delicate.
She doesn’t see me.
Or maybe she does.
Maybe she’s just really good at pretending she doesn’t.
I don’t go over.
Wouldn’t know what to say even if I did.
But I watch her.
Just for a minute.
And in that minute, I notice two things:
1. She’s completely still, except for her hand.
2. She looks like someone who’s bracing for a storm she already knows she can’t outrun.
When we leave the park, June tugs on my sleeve.
“Was that Raven over there?”
“Yeah.”
“You stared.”
I shrug. “Didn’t mean to.”
“She’s interesting,” June says.
I don’t answer.
Because she is.
But I don’t know why.
That night, I try to finish our project notes.
I open the shared doc. Her sections are clean, well-written. Mine are okay. Functional.
But I find myself rereading her intro paragraph three times.
Not because of what she said.
But because of how she said it.
Quiet. Controlled. A little sad.
I know that tone.
It’s the same one I use when I say I’m fine.
By midnight, I’m still awake.
I scroll through my phone. Stare at texts I haven’t answered. Assignments I haven’t done.
I think about messaging her.
Hey, good job on the intro.
You okay?
Do you want to split the next section?
Anything.
But I don’t.
Because if I open that door, I don’t know what might come through.
- Writer
