Day 6.
She didn't say a word.
Not "hello."Not my name.Not even a hum.
Just silence.
At first I thought maybe she was tired.Maybe she just didn't want to talk.
But then she tried.
Opened her mouth—
And nothing came out.
She touched her throat.
Then looked at me, wide-eyed.
"...Ren?"
She mouthed it.
But her voice never followed.
I took her hands.
Held them gently.
"It's okay," I said."You don't need to speak."
But the way she looked at me…it was panic.
As if she knew something important was slipping—something final.
Day 5.
We started using the notebook again.
She pointed.Wrote.
"Can I still love someone without being able to say it?"
I wrote back underneath:
"Yes."
"Because you're still saying it in every way that matters."
That night, she placed a single word on my lap.
Scrawled across a torn page in trembling handwriting:
"Stay."
Day 4.
I read to her.
Every page from our memories.Every word she once said.
And she listened with closed eyes—as if letting the words soak into her skinso they wouldn't escape again.
When I finished, she nodded slowly.
Then pressed her forehead to mine.
And I swear I heard it.
Not through sound—but through presence.
"I love you."
Not spoken.
But there.
Undeniably there.
That night I wrote:
"Day 4.She forgot her own voice."
"But she found a way to say what mattered anyway."