The bus was crowded that morning.
People were standing everywhere, and my chest tightened again.
Then I saw him.
He was sitting near the window.
The seat beside him was empty.
Our eyes met.
He didn't say a word.
He just looked at the seat and made a small gesture with his hand.
I walked toward him and sat down.
For a few seconds, we said nothing.
Then I whispered,
"Thank you… for that day."
He looked at me quietly.
Then he pulled a small notebook and pen from his bag.
He wrote carefully, his letters neat and precise, and slowly turned the paper toward me:
"You're welcome. Be careful next time."
I stared at the paper for a long moment.
He didn't speak, but his words felt louder than any voice.
The bus moved slowly through the city streets.
I kept glancing at him, curiosity mixing with something strange… something safe.
After a few stops, I whispered,
"Why… are you not speaking?"
He didn't answer.
His eyes met mine, calm and unreadable.
Then he wrote again, slowly:
"I was born like this. Sign language and writing are my voice."
My heart beat faster.
He didn't need words for me to understand him.
His silence said more than any voice ever could.
I felt… strange. Safe, yet curious.
For the first time, the silent boy didn't feel scary.
He felt… protective.
He closed the notebook gently and placed it on his lap.
His eyes returned to the window, but every now and then… they glanced at me.
I smiled softly.
Maybe… I was starting to understand him