In The Quiet, Silence Screams

In the Quiet, Silence Screams — Chapter 1 of an ongoing YA suspense series.
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Mirena

Time is a strange illusion — rushing by when life brims with hope, yet dragging when every second feels heavy. Some memories cling tightly, refusing to fade no matter how much time passes.

Like that quiet afternoon on Willowbridge, the place where the river curved like a silver ribbon beneath us.

He dropped to one knee, eyes locked on mine, hands trembling as he held out a small velvet-covered box. Inside was a Yin-Yang necklace, glowing faintly in the sunlight. But what caught my attention wasn’t its shine — it was the absence. The Yin half was missing. Only the Yang sat there, complete yet somehow unfinished.

What did that mean to him? I wondered, caught in the blur between hope and confusion.

He was so nervous, stumbling over his words like they were the most important he’d ever speak. My face lit up — I couldn’t help it — but I didn’t look directly at him, which probably only made him more anxious.

And then I cracked.

I laughed.

Not because it wasn’t sweet, but because of how adorably imperfect he was in that moment. He laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed but smiling. His so-called perfect date was falling apart, and we both knew it.

But then the laughter faded, leaving behind a quiet neither of us dared to fill.

He looked at me — not teasing, not nervous anymore. Just steady. Serious.

Then he stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Mirena.”

He hesitated — probably the first time he’d ever called me by my full name. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breath.

My heart skipped as his fingers found mine. The second his skin brushed mine, a shiver ran up my spine. He pulled me closer, and the world shrank to just the two of us.

“Can I be yours?” he whispered, voice raw. “Officially yours?” The words hung between us, heavy with hope. And fear.

Before I could say a word, he gently clasped the Yang pendant around my neck. Then, with a playful smile, he pulled the missing Yin half from beneath his shirt — as if he knew I’d find it amusing that he’d had the other half all along. When our eyes met, his sparkled like it was the only thing that mattered.

For a moment, it felt like a fairy tale.

But real life doesn’t always hand out fairy tale endings.

Even now, those memories cut deep — like daggers slipping under skin I thought had healed. The hardest part wasn’t just his absence.

It was the silence he left behind.

No explanation. No farewell. Just quiet emptiness.

Today would have marked three years. And yet, I remember everything — far more than I’d ever admit.

“Mirai, honey, are you up?”

Dad’s voice floated up the stairs, snapping me out of the spiral.

I lay in bed, eyes fixed on the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. Memories churned, refusing to let go.

Why do some moments cling so tightly? I wondered, feeling the ache settle over me like a weighted blanket.

“I’m up,” I finally called. “I’ll be down in ten!”

“Don’t keep Elijah and Janelle waiting, sweetie!”

Eli and Jane — friends I’ve known since ninth grade, when we met on Orientation Day. I was a student volunteer, helping the seniors welcome the newbies, and they were the kind of people who made you feel like you’d known them forever. We clicked instantly.

Maybe too instantly.

In tenth grade, right in the middle of a rough patch with my ex, Eli told me he had feelings for me. He knew I was still with someone else, but he said it anyway.

Drunk, emotional, and way too honest for either of us to handle.

I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing. Let it pass. Blamed the alcohol. Blamed the moment.

I let him down gently, and somehow, he took it well — too well. Like it had never happened. Everything just resumed. Normal. Steady. Untouched.

We never told anyone, but eventually, someone found out. That truth sparked a chain of everything that came after. Looking back, it was the beginning of the end. A warning I refused to read.

Jane, though? She’s different. Her hugs feel like home, and her loyalty runs deep. She’s the kind of person who shows up without asking and stays without needing a reason.

As I got dressed, I realized I’d just had a full-blown conversation with myself. Again.

Why am I always talking to myself?

I laughed under my breath. Twenty minutes passed before Dad’s voice called again, louder this time.

I bolted downstairs — one Converse on, the other missing.

The first thing I saw was Jane, wearing Dad’s old Tai Chi apron, clumsily flipping pancakes. I blinked.

“Jane?” I raised a brow. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged, mumbling something about cooking — but I wasn’t buying it. Her mom had banned her from coming over on school days. Not after last time.

She messed up, I took the fall, and now we’re both on her mom’s blacklist — at least when we’re left to our own devices.

Eventually, she caved. “If Eli’s here too, technically I’m allowed to visit whenever I want,” she said with a grin.

My eyes narrowed. Sketchy logic, but I didn’t push it.

Technically, Dad was home too. But I already knew that didn’t count.

“Why is Eli here, anyway?” I muttered, mostly to myself, tapping my chin.

From behind his fortress of newspapers, Dad suddenly poked his head up like a meerkat spotting danger. “Good question,” he said, rubbing his chin like he’d just solved world hunger.

I bunked.

“Let me guess — he’s in the gaming room again,” I muttered, already halfway up the stairs.

I wandered the hallway, dragging my hand along the railing. “Eli?” I called, not really expecting an answer.

Nothing. Of course.

I sighed and glanced down — still only one shoe on. Typical, Mirai. I groaned at my own stupidity.

I turned toward my room, ready to launch into full sneaker search mode. But the second I stepped inside, I froze.

There he was.

Standing by my dresser, silent, holding a framed photo in both hands — the one we took before we lost her.

My breath caught. I hadn’t realized I’d left them out.

I’d pulled them from the drawer a few days ago, around the anniversary. Just for a moment of comfort. I meant to put them away again — hide them, like I always did.

But now he was holding one, studying it like it meant something.

Something in my chest twisted, sharp and slow.

“That’s my mom,” I said quietly, voice catching.

Eli looked up, startled.

His fingers twitched against the glass. The frame tilted. “Whoa — careful!” I lunged forward, catching it just before it slipped.

Our eyes met — and held.

He let go, backing off a step, sheepish. “I… I was looking for something,” he said quickly. “Passed your room, the door was open, and I just stepped inside. Without thinking. I know I shouldn’t have.”

I didn’t say anything. Just held the frame, suddenly very aware of the dust smudge on the corner. Of how loud my heartbeat felt.

He looked back at the photo.

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly, staring at the picture with quiet admiration.

I just stood there, caught off guard, unable to say a word.

It wasn’t because of him. It was the way he said it like a fact, not a compliment.

More than that, it was because something inside me still ached every time I was reminded of her.

I rarely spoke about Mom. It was just… easier not to.

I swallowed hard, words caught in my throat.

“I’m sorry for invading your space,” he said softly, holding out his pinky.

“It won’t happen again.”

I smiled faintly, a small warmth unfolding in my chest. Then linked my pinky with his — a quiet promise.

He set the photo down gently. And without another word, he stepped out.

I turned back to the frame — me, Mom, and Dad, looking like a chaotic mess on my first day of middle school.

Her radiant smile hit me like a wave.

Game nights. Shopping trips. Burnt cookies. Her perfume. Her voice.

I pressed my lips against the glass, tears sliding down my cheeks.

“He’s right,” I whispered.

“You are beautiful.”