The Silence Between Words

Sana had always been quiet. Not because she lacked things to say, but because she believed most things didn’t need to be said out loud. She spoke when necessary, and when she did, her words were soft, measured, and deliberate. But to the world around her—especially in the noisy classroom and social world of college—her silence was often misread.

She wasn't invisible, exactly. People noticed her, but not in the way she hoped. They whispered things behind her back when they thought she couldn’t hear. Some called her "the ghost," others said she was “too proud to talk,” and once, she overheard someone say, “She probably thinks she’s better than all of us.”

None of it was true.

Sana was just… quiet.

In her second year of college, she was paired with a group of three classmates for a project in her Communication Studies class—an ironic twist she couldn’t ignore. There was Ayesha, the loud and confident leader; Bilal, the laid-back joker; and Mariam, the kind one who always tried to make everyone feel included.

Sana sat silently as Ayesha assigned tasks.

"I'll handle the presentation part," Ayesha said quickly. "Bilal, you’re good with visuals. Mariam, research and structure. Sana... maybe proofreading?"

Sana nodded.

Mariam glanced at her and smiled. “You okay with that?”

“Yes,” Sana replied softly. That was all she said.

As the days passed, the group would meet often, usually in the café or library. And each time, Sana listened more than she spoke. She paid attention to every detail, quietly finishing her assigned part and even doing a little extra to help Mariam when needed. But she rarely joined in the laughter or side conversations. She didn’t know how to jump into a conversation that had already taken off. Her silence made her feel safe.

But one afternoon, as she arrived at the library earlier than the others, she overheard Mariam and Ayesha talking.

“I feel like she doesn’t want to be here,” Ayesha whispered. “She just sits there with that blank face. Like she’s judging us.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Mariam replied. “Maybe she’s just shy.”

“Or stuck up,” Ayesha muttered. “I mean, we’re trying. But she gives nothing back. It’s weird.”

Sana froze behind the shelf, her heart sinking.

So this is how they saw her.

Later that day, Bilal joked during their meeting, “Hey, Sana, do you speak or just communicate through mysterious eye contact?”

The others laughed. Sana forced a smile. It was easier to smile than explain. Easier to pretend it didn’t hurt.

That night, she stared at the ceiling in her room. Why do they always assume the worst? Why does being quiet mean you’re broken, angry, or proud?

She thought of the quote she once read:
“When others can’t read us, they write their own story.”
And maybe that was it. Her silence was an empty page, and everyone around her was writing their own version of her story.


---

Weeks passed. The group finished their project and gave the final presentation. True to her promise, Sana had helped Mariam perfect the structure and had polished every word of the script. They got an A.

But Sana was still "the quiet one." And the label didn’t go away.

Until one day.

It was raining—soft, steady rain that painted the windows in silver streaks. Sana was walking toward the bus stop when she saw Mariam sitting alone on a bench, crying.

People walked past her. Some looked. None stopped.

But Sana did.

She sat beside her and didn’t say a word. Just sat. Mariam didn’t look up at first. But after a moment, she wiped her face and whispered, “Hey.”

Sana gave a small nod, her eyes warm.

“My mom’s sick,” Mariam said. “We just found out. It’s cancer.”

Sana reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook. She gently tore a page and scribbled something. Then she handed it to Mariam.

It read:
“You don’t need to say anything right now. I’ll sit here with you as long as you need.”

Mariam looked at her, surprised. Then she began to cry again—this time not because she was alone, but because she wasn’t.

They sat there for almost thirty minutes. No words. No judgment. Just quiet, shared presence.

When Mariam stood to leave, she turned to Sana. “Thank you. For understanding… without even needing to speak.”

Sana smiled, and for once, it felt understood.


---

A few days later, Ayesha approached Sana in class.

“Hey,” she said, shifting awkwardly. “I think… I owe you an apology. Mariam told me how much you helped her. And I realized… maybe we were wrong about you. I was wrong.”

Sana looked at her and nodded. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Ayesha said. “We all assumed things. You were always there, doing the work, helping quietly. I guess we just didn’t know how to see it.”

Sana didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. But something changed after that.

Bit by bit, the way people saw her shifted. Not because she spoke louder or changed who she was, but because someone finally told the true story behind the silence.


---

Epilogue

Years later, Sana became a writer—ironic, perhaps, for someone who never spoke much. But her words found their voice on paper, where no one could interrupt, and where silence could be beautiful.

She wrote essays, poems, and stories—many about the quiet ones. About how silence is often misunderstood. About how not every quiet person is sad, stuck up, or strange. Some are just listeners. Some are just thinkers. Some are just… being.

And one day, she wrote these lines in a book that would reach thousands:

> “Silence isn’t always emptiness. Sometimes, it’s presence. Sometimes, it’s care.
But the world doesn’t like gaps—it fills them with stories.
So if you ever meet a quiet person, ask them their story…
Instead of writing it for them.”