Unspoken

I’ve always believed that the most powerful stories are the ones no one ever hears.

They live quietly, tucked inside us — in half-written journals, in unfinished letters, in the moments when we stare at the ceiling and wonder what if. They never make it to stages or bookshelves. They don’t go viral. But they shape us more than any story we tell out loud.

This is one of mine.



I met her in the quietest winter of my life. I was 21. Lost, like most people are in their early twenties — pretending I knew who I was, what I wanted, what healing looked like. I had dropped out of university the semester before. Depression doesn’t ask for permission — it just shows up and stays until you forget who you were before it arrived.

I’d spend most of my days sitting on the park bench at the corner of Fifth and Willow, clutching a notebook I rarely opened. Writing had always been my release, but at that time, even words felt too heavy to carry.

And then she sat down next to me.

No introduction. No small talk. Just a soft, tired sigh and the unwrapping of a chocolate bar. I glanced at her. She looked… ordinary. Messy bun, oversized coat, sneakers with worn-out laces. But her eyes — her eyes held storms. Not the kind that scared you. The kind that said, I’ve been there too.

She offered me a piece of chocolate. I shook my head.

"You look like you need it more than me," she said, half-smiling.

That was the beginning.



Her name was Safiya.

We never exchanged numbers. We never asked for last names. But for the next 27 days, she showed up. Same bench. Same time. Two strangers sitting in silence, sometimes sharing chocolate, sometimes stories.

She once told me, “People always want to fix you. They throw advice like bandaids. But sometimes, you just need someone to sit in your sadness without trying to solve it.”

I didn’t say anything then. But I wrote it down when I got home.



On the 10th day, she brought her journal. Not to read from it — just to show me it existed.

“I call it The Book of Things I’ll Never Say Out Loud,” she said.

I nodded, then slowly handed her mine. She didn’t open it. Just held it like something sacred.

We sat that way — two people with matching scars, holding each other’s silence.



On the 20th day, she cried. No warning. Just tears falling quietly as the wind pushed against the trees. I didn’t ask why. I just handed her a tissue and sat closer.

“I thought I was getting better,” she whispered. “But grief has no expiration date.”

Still, I said nothing. That was our language — understanding without questioning.


On the 27th day, she didn’t come.

I waited. For hours.

The next day, I waited again.

And the next.

She never came back.



I don’t know where she went. I don’t know if she moved, relapsed, healed, disappeared. I never saw her again. But sometimes, I imagine she’s sitting on another bench, in another city, handing someone else a chocolate bar and listening to stories they’ll never tell anyone else.

Sometimes I think I was just a pause in her journey. A safe corner in the chaos. And maybe that’s enough.



A year later, I opened the journal she gave me. I hadn’t dared to until then.

There were only two pages filled.



Page 1:
To the stranger on the bench:

Thank you for not asking me why I’m broken. Thank you for just sitting with the pieces.



Page 2:
If you’re ever brave enough to write again, write the story of us. Not for the world. For yourself. To remember that even on your worst days, someone saw you and stayed.


I wept.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

The kind of weeping that feels like cleansing — like finally letting go of everything you’ve held too tightly.



I’m writing this now, years later, because she was right.

Some stories deserve to be written even if no one reads them.

Some connections, even nameless, are more real than lifelong friendships.

Some moments live longer in memory than entire years.



This is not a love story. It’s not a tragedy either.

It’s just… human.

Two people. One bench. A borrowed journal. Twenty-seven days of unspoken healing.


So here it is, Safiya.
I finally wrote the story.

And if you ever find it…
Thank you.
For sitting beside me when I couldn’t carry my story alone.