"Unspoken Stories"
Lately, everything I felt, I poured into my Instagram stories—each one carrying a silent message, a subtle hint, a hidden sadness. I started posting quotes and sad captions, all of them somehow about him. Dedicating those stories to someone who never asked for them, someone who didn't even know the weight of each word I wrote.
But he liked them.
Every time I saw the notification that he had seen or liked it, my heart would do this tiny dance inside my chest. It felt like he understood, like maybe—just maybe—those words were reaching him in a way my own voice never dared to.
Days passed, and something shifted in him.
He began acting strangely. While everyone else was focused in class, solving problems, scribbling notes, or chatting in groups—he would just sit there... watching me.
I could feel his eyes. Not in a creepy way, but in a quiet, questioning way—like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the courage to. It made me nervous at first, but soon, I started liking it. That silent connection. That shared, wordless space between us.
Then one day, during our regular computer class, the teacher announced that there would be an upcoming trip. A refreshment tour, she called it—a way to get away from the routine. "Raise your hand if you'd like to join," she said, looking around with an encouraging smile.
Hands slowly started going up around the room, but mine stayed still. I wasn't much of an outdoor or visiting person, and deep down, I didn't want to go.
And then I saw it—he looked at me. Just for a moment. His hand was half-raised, but when he saw mine hadn't moved, he dropped his arm. Just like that.
He didn't want to go if I wasn't going.
That moment hit me harder than I expected. It wasn't a grand gesture, but something about it felt deeply personal. Like he was silently saying, "I'm here because of you."
A few days before that, something similar had happened. He had left the computer class midway. It was unusual for him. The teacher noticed and asked about it the next day.
He replied casually, "I had to finish some notes," then added something that made my heart skip.
He looked straight at me when he said it.
It was like his words weren't really about notes at all. They were about me. About the distance between us. About how he didn't know how to cross it.
I didn't know what to make of it. We had never exchanged a real conversation. Just glances. Just digital likes. Just unsaid words hanging between us like mist on a quiet morning.
But in those tiny moments, we built something—soft, fragile, but real. And maybe, just maybe, that was our way of talking… in silence.