The Sea Of Tranquility

The Sound Between Silence

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

The bed was too soft. The room too quiet. Every creak of the house sounded like someone walking across my chest. I lay still in my aunt’s guest room, staring at the ceiling, counting the thin cracks that ran like veins across the plaster. Headlights drifted across the walls from the street below, soft white beams slicing through the slats of the blinds, moving like ghosts too tired to haunt.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the note.

Five words.

You’re not the only ghost here.

It sat on the nightstand now, folded carefully like something sacred. I kept touching it—my fingers grazing the worn edge of the paper, the blunt, blocky handwriting pressed into the fibers. There was nothing elegant about the message, nothing fancy. Just raw truth, written by someone who didn’t seem to waste words.

Josh Bennett saw me.

Not in the way boys saw girls in movies, romantic, overdone. This was different. Colder. Sharper. Like being caught in the beam of a flashlight and not knowing whether it meant help or exposure.

I hated that it mattered.

But it did.

The morning crept in behind a low ceiling of clouds. It felt like the whole town had been dunked in cold water and left to shiver. I walked to school without speaking to my aunt. She was already gone for work, a note on the counter and a banana left beside it.

I skipped breakfast. My stomach was a knot of unease and... something else. Something electric.

I got to Delbrook High way too early. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for the janitor’s rusted-out truck and a couple of senior cars parked crooked like they owned the place. The air was damp, clinging to my sweatshirt like a second skin.

I found the library steps and sat down, drawing my knees up to my chest. I watched the fog roll over the soccer field in the distance, swallowing the goalposts and the benches until they looked like fading memories. Everything was gray, even the sky.

I didn’t expect him to show up.

But he did.

Josh.

He came from the far side of the school, hoodie up, hands shoved into the pockets of worn jeans. His walk was the same, slow, heavy, like he was dragging something behind him no one else could see. He passed by without looking at me.

Then, just as he reached the library doors, he paused.

He turned halfway and looked over his shoulder, his hazel-green eyes locking onto mine like he was picking up a conversation we hadn’t finished.

You’re early, he said.

His voice was low, slightly rough, like someone who didn’t use it much. It didn’t scare me. It didn’t even surprise me. It just… settled into the air like it belonged there.

So are you, I answered, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He gave a short nod and leaned against the railing beside me. Not too close. Not too far. The kind of distance that made it okay to pretend we weren’t together, but not entirely strangers either.

We didn’t talk.

Not at first.

The silence wasn’t awkward, though. It felt mutual. Comfortable. Like two people who knew words weren’t always the most honest things.

Then he said something that shattered the quiet.

What happened to you?

It wasn’t accusatory. Just direct.

I blinked. What?

You don’t talk much. You walk like you’re trying not to be noticed. You look like you’re always somewhere else. People don’t get like that for no reason.

I stared at him.

His face was unreadable. Calm. But there was something behind his eyes a question. Not curiosity. More like... familiarity.

You sound like you know what that’s like, I said.

He shrugged. Maybe I do.

I wanted to ask more. What happened to you? Why do you care? But I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to share my pieces yet. I didn’t even know where some of them were.

You don’t strike me as someone who talks to new girls, I said instead.

I don’t, he replied.

Then why me?

Josh looked away for a moment, his gaze following a bird cutting through the fog. Because you look like you’re trying really hard to stay invisible. And I know how exhausting that gets.

That silence came back, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full.

When the bell rang, we both stood. He didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t either. But we walked into the building with the same rhythm, like our feet had decided we belonged in the same story.

By third period, I was being watched.

Not obviously. Just glances. Pauses in conversation when I passed. Girls whispering near their lockers, looking from me to Josh’s empty seat in homeroom and back again. I knew how it worked. High school hierarchies didn’t need invitations, they were always watching for disruptions.

And I was a disruption.

I sat through Algebra without solving a single equation. My fingers kept twitching against the edge of my desk, retracing the feel of the note, of Josh’s voice. It was reckless, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

In Literature, I hoped he wouldn’t show up late.

He didn’t.

He came in just as the bell rang, walked past the front row, and slid into the same seat as yesterday, one space from mine. No backpack. Just a worn spiral notebook and a pencil so chewed at the end I wondered how it still worked.

Mrs. Langston didn’t acknowledge his entrance. No one did.

But I saw him glance at me.

Just once.

Then he looked away.

At lunch, I sat in the same back corner I had the day before. I wasn’t expecting him to join me.

But he did.

He didn’t say anything when he slid into the seat across from mine. Just pulled a peanut butter sandwich from the pocket of his hoodie, wrapped in a paper towel. It was homemade. That much was clear.

I picked at a slice of apple I brought in my bag. I wasn’t really hungry. Not for food.

Do you always eat alone? he asked eventually.

Yes, I replied.

Me too.

We sat in that for a moment.

People here are loud, he said.

I don’t mind loud, I answered. I just don’t trust it.

He raised an eyebrow. Why?

Because loud people pretend they’re okay even when they’re not. And pretending takes energy I don’t have anymore.

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense.

You talk like someone who’s been lied to a lot.

And you look like someone who stopped caring, I shot back gently.

That smile came again. Subtle. Real.

Maybe, he said. Or maybe I just care about different things now.

Like what?

He paused. Looked down at his sandwich. “Things I can build. Things I can fix.”

You can’t fix people, I said before I could stop myself.

Josh looked up, his eyes catching mine in a way that made my chest flutter painfully.

I know.

After school, I took my time at my locker. The hallway was mostly cleared out. The janitor’s closet gave another cough of bleach as he passed me, mop bucket squeaking behind him like an old ghost.

Then I saw it.

A scrap of wood. Tucked into the hinge of my locker door. Smooth. Sanded. It looked like it had once been part of something larger. It was warm to the touch, as if it had only just been left.

Two words had been carved into the grain with sharp, careful strokes.

Still here.

I stared at it for a long time. Longer than I probably should have.

Not because I didn’t understand it.