The Silence Between Us
421 Words
He doesn’t speak for a full minute.
Just stands there, gripping the doorframe like the world might tilt if he lets go. I can see the war behind his eyes—shock, disbelief, guilt, fear… hope?
Then, with a voice so low I barely hear it, he says, “Come in.”
The house smells like dust and forgotten things. Faint scent of coffee and old paper. There’s a crooked lamp in the corner and boxes piled beside the couch. He clears a space and gestures awkwardly for me to sit.
I sit.
He sits opposite me. Not too close. Like if he moves too fast, I’ll disappear.
“I don’t know where to start,” he says.
“Me neither.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. “You look just like her.”
I know he means my mother. I nod.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says. “After… everything. They told me you were gone.”
“Who told you?”
He swallows hard. “Your mother’s family. After she died… I was a wreck. I wasn’t there when it mattered. By the time I came back, they said you were gone. Taken. Dead.”
I feel my heart break for the second time in my life.
“I wasn’t dead,” I whisper.
“I know that now.”
Silence falls between us again. Heavy and sharp.
I reach into my bag and pull out the photo Evelyn gave me. The one with him holding me. I place it on the table between us.
His hands tremble as he picks it up.
“I used to dream about this,” he says. “You walking through that door. Saying those words.”
“Do you remember anything about that day? The day I disappeared?”
His eyes darken. “Only that I wasn’t there. That I should’ve been.”
He looks up at me then, tears clinging to his lashes.
“I failed you.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Maybe. But I’m here now.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. You are.”
We sit in the silence again. But it’s different this time. Not heavy. Not sharp.
Just… quiet.
Then he says, “Can I hug you?”
I nod.
And when his arms wrap around me—trembling, hesitant, full of years we lost—I let myself cry.
Because sometimes, love sounds like silence.
And sometimes, it feels like home.
- Writer
