ONE SIDED SILENCE
1146 Words
Chapter 7 – One-Sided Silence
Zion had never been the type to overthink things. He was more of a shrug-it-off, keep-it-moving kind of guy. But ever since yesterday, his thoughts kept looping back to Kaira—and the wall she’d suddenly built between them.
She didn’t text him. Not even a meme. No good morning, no “are you ready for the shoot?” Nothing. Like they hadn’t spent the past two weeks side by side planning a campaign. Like they hadn’t laughed in empty hallways and argued about font choices for flyers like it actually mattered.
Now she was… radio silent.
He tried not to let it bother him. Really, he did. But something about the way she said “cool” yesterday haunted him.
Kaira had never been good at hiding her feelings. That was one of the things he liked about her—she was real. If she thought something was dumb, she’d say it. If she cared, it showed. But this? This distant, nothing-to-see-here version of her felt like standing outside in the middle of winter, banging on a locked door no one was willing to open.
So yeah, it bothered him. More than he was willing to admit.
Still, he didn’t say anything when he saw her at lunch, sitting at the far end of the table beside Selena, twirling a pencil in her hand and not laughing at anyone’s jokes. He didn’t wave. Didn’t try to sit closer. Just watched from across the cafeteria, trying to decode the tilt of her head and the fact that her sweatshirt sleeves were pulled all the way over her palms again.
She used to laugh at his texts. She used to challenge his dumb ideas with better ones. She used to—be his friend, at the very least.
And now?
Now she acted like he was a stranger she vaguely recognized but didn’t want to talk to in public.
After school, they met in the editing room again, just the two of them. Ms. Rivera had given them a list of final edits to make before the next student council roundtable. It should’ve taken an hour. It took two, because the silence between them was so loud, Zion could barely focus.
Kaira didn’t crack. Not once.
She was polite. Efficient. Clear with her directions.
But not warm.
Not curious.
Not her.
“So you wanna cut the second take or keep it?” he asked, pointing at the screen.
Kaira leaned over, just enough to see the laptop, her shoulder brushing his accidentally before she moved back like it didn’t happen. “Keep it. The lighting’s better.”
Zion nodded, trying to pretend he didn’t notice how fast she’d pulled away. “Cool.”
Another cool.
He hated that word now.
Kaira adjusted her seat, folding one leg under her. “Once you export it, I’ll email Rivera.”
“You’re not gonna stay and upload it together?” he asked, surprised.
She shook her head, eyes on the screen. “Got somewhere to be.”
Zion hesitated. “Oh. Okay.”
And that was that. She stood, grabbed her bag, and left without another word.
Zion stared after her, feeling like someone had just walked offstage in the middle of a performance and taken the entire show with them.
---
Kaira didn’t cry when she got home. She didn’t pace the floor or scream into a pillow or text Selena a wall of dramatic updates. She just opened her laptop, played some low music, and started reading articles for an English assignment she didn’t care about.
Because she didn’t care.
That was the whole point.
That was the script she kept reading to herself in her head.
Even when she caught herself replaying the moment their arms brushed, and how fast she moved away—not because she wanted to, but because staying still might have revealed too much.
Even when she remembered how his voice sounded when he said, “You’re not gonna stay?”
Like maybe he didn’t want her to go.
But he didn’t stop her either.
And he still hadn’t asked. Not really. Not about Tasha. Not about what changed. Not about why she went from warm to glacier in less than twenty-four hours.
Because he didn’t want to know.
Not deep down. Not the version that mattered.
So she let herself disappear.
---
By the end of the week, it was as if they were co-workers. Strictly business.
They reviewed clips. Sorted schedules. Coordinated flyers and feedback forms.
But they didn’t talk. Not the real kind.
Zion kept waiting for her to slip. For her to roll her eyes at one of his jokes or mutter a sarcastic comeback under her breath. But she never did.
She was too calm. Too collected.
Too not-Kaira.
On Friday, as they walked down the hallway after school to put up final posters, he tried one last time.
“You know,” he said, adjusting the stack of tape and pins in his hand, “I think we actually make a good team.”
Kaira’s gaze flicked toward him briefly. “We get things done.”
“That’s not the same as being a good team,” he pointed out.
She stopped at the bulletin board, smoothing out a flyer. “Maybe not. But results matter.”
Zion watched her as she pressed a thumbtack into the corner of the paper. Her fingers were steady. Her eyes never left the task.
It drove him nuts.
He leaned against the wall beside her. “Did something happen? Like, outside of all this? Did I do something?”
Kaira paused—but just for a heartbeat. Then she shook her head. “No.”
He waited.
She didn’t elaborate.
“You sure?” he pressed.
“I’m sure,” she said, finishing with the last corner.
There was a finality in her voice that shut the rest of his questions down before they could escape.
He exhaled, long and quiet. “Alright then.”
---
That night, Zion sat on his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Kaira’s contact.
He typed something. Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted it again.
In the end, he turned off his screen and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t know what changed.
He didn’t know what he missed.
But something about her silence made everything else feel too loud.
---
Meanwhile, Kaira was staring at her own screen, a blank message box open with his name at the top.
She typed: Do you even care?
Deleted it.
Typed: Why didn’t you say something when I walked away?
Deleted that too.
Finally, she just closed her phone and rolled onto her side.
Because the truth was: she cared.
She just wasn’t sure he did.
And she wasn’t going to say it first.
Not this time.
- Writer
