Beneath the Silence.

The park was nearly empty when Mira arrived, as it always was this time of year. Late autumn peeled the world of color, leaving behind only faded golds and brittle browns. The air smelled of cold earth and drying leaves. She liked that. No one noticed her here, and she didn’t have to pretend.

She walked slowly, trailing her hand along the worn wooden rail of the footbridge, and settled on the bench beneath the old oak — the one that still held on to a few stubborn leaves. It was their bench once, though she never said that out loud.

Clutched in her coat pocket was the letter she’d written two nights ago. Not that it mattered now. The words had already fermented inside her for years, becoming part of her — a quiet ache she carried like a bruise under the skin.

Mira unfolded the letter but didn’t read it. She knew it by heart. Every word, every line. The things she had never said.

Dear Arman,

If I ever find the courage, you might read this.

I don’t know how to explain silence. People think it’s absence, but for me, it was always a presence. Heavy, waiting, watching. It was there between our words, in the pauses after our laughter, in the moments you looked away and didn’t notice my hands shaking.

I was afraid. Not of you, never of you. But of what I felt when I was with you.

That kind of truth — the kind that could rearrange a life — it terrified me.

So I stayed quiet.

Love,

Mira

A breeze passed through the trees, rustling what few leaves remained. The sound was soft, like pages turning in a forgotten book. Mira stared out over the still lake, remembering the day she had first met Arman.

It was here. Right on this very bench. He had asked if he could sit, and she had nodded without looking up. They’d sat in silence for what felt like an hour before he finally said, “Funny how peaceful it gets when no one’s trying to fix anything.”

She hadn’t replied, but her heart had skipped. He hadn’t known, couldn’t have known, that she was trying to fix everything inside her, just by sitting there. And somehow, he understood that anyway.

Over the next few months, he became her safe place. They spoke about books, films, the sky. Never about the shadows. Never about the quiet despair that lived in both of them.

And slowly, a rhythm grew between them — not quite friendship, not quite romance, but something sacred.

She remembered once, during winter, when snow started falling as they walked. He reached out instinctively and brushed it from her shoulders.

“You look like a ghost when it snows,” he said with a soft smile.

“You make me feel like I’m still alive,” she almost said.

But she didn’t. Silence, again.

The letter in her lap fluttered, the edges catching the breeze. Mira held it tighter.

It had been three years since she’d last seen Arman. No fights. No closure. Just... distance. First in the form of missed calls and unread texts. Then in the shape of time.

She’d found out through a friend that he’d moved to another city. “He’s doing well,” they’d said. “Teaches now. Has a dog.”

She smiled at that. He always wanted a dog. One of those gentle, quiet breeds. Something that wouldn’t make him feel alone, but wouldn’t overwhelm him either.

And still, she had never reached out. Never once broken the silence.

Because what do you say to someone you love when you've never told them that you did?

A child’s laugh echoed across the park. Mira turned to see a boy and his mother tossing breadcrumbs to a cluster of birds. Life was still happening all around her. That was the strange part. The world didn’t pause for your pain.

She stood and walked to the edge of the lake, where the water met a patch of stone. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows.

She unfolded the letter once more. One last time.

There was so much I never said. So much I was afraid to say.

Like how I memorized the sound of your footsteps before you sat next to me.

Or how I’d smile into my coffee when you texted “made it home safe.”

Or how I waited for you to say the things I couldn’t say myself.

I was so afraid of breaking what we had that I never let it become what it could have been.

So I’m writing this now, not to ask for anything. Not even forgiveness.

Just to say: I loved you, Arman. Quietly. Fully. Beneath everything I never said.

Mira folded the letter and stared at the lake’s surface. It was smooth, like a mirror. She considered throwing it in, letting the water swallow the years. But no — that wasn’t the right kind of silence.

Instead, she took out a match from the small box in her coat. She lit it, watched it burn, and touched the flame to the corner of the paper. It caught quickly.

She held the burning letter until the last edge curled and blackened, then let the ashes fall gently into the breeze.

The truth had finally been spoken — not aloud, but in the act of release.

She sat again beneath the oak tree. The wind had changed. Warmer now. Softer. And for the first time in years, the silence around her felt different.

Not heavy.

Not lonely.

Just still.

Like peace.