What Silence Couldn’t Say

My name is Ayesha.

People used to call me "that silent girl." The one who always sat in the corner of the classroom. The one who rarely spoke, who avoided eye contact, whose eyes held oceans of untold stories — stories that no one cared to ask about.

Before I leave this world, I just want to do one thing:

Write. Just write my story.

Childhood — The Beginning of Silence

I remember being a little girl, quiet and observant. My mother often asked the same question:

“Why doesn’t she talk much?”

She took me to doctors.

They said, “She’s just shy. She’ll grow out of it.”

But I wasn’t shy.

I was scared.

Every night, I would hear screaming from the other room. My father’s angry voice. My mother’s cries.

I used to cover my ears and hide under my blanket, praying for the walls to swallow me.

That’s when I learned:

Silence can protect you.

If you’re invisible, they can’t hurt you.

School — Another Word for Loneliness

In school, everyone had friends. Groups. Laughter. I had a diary and some dreams I’d already buried.

Kids would tease me:

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Is she mute?”

“Freak.”

Even teachers would say:

“You won’t make it far in life, Ayesha. You’re too quiet.”

But how could I explain? I wasn’t just quiet. I was carrying a storm inside me — one I couldn’t let out.

A Glimpse of Light

In 11th grade, someone came into my life — a boy named Ali. He was kind.

He didn’t mock me for being quiet.

He once said:

“There’s a sound in silence too, Ayesha. I hear it.”

For the first time in years, I smiled.

Maybe... just maybe, someone finally saw me.

But good things are like shooting stars.

They vanish too soon.

Ali moved away with his family. And with him, he took that tiny spark of hope I had left.

The Breaking Point

I kept going to college. Smiling at people. Passing exams. Breathing — but not living.

Then one day, my mother said:

“Your father has changed. We’re fixing your marriage now.”

Marriage?

To a girl who never learned what love means?

To someone who’s never felt safe inside her own home?

That night, I took out my diary again.

Not to write poetry this time — but to write my final words.

The Last Letter

"To everyone who thought I was just quiet, here's what I never said:"

I was never shy.

I was in pain.

I didn’t speak because no one ever listened.

I didn’t cry out because the last time I did, they laughed.

Every day, I carried invisible bruises. Not on my skin — but in my soul.

You saw a quiet girl.

I was a battlefield.

You saw a loner.

I was screaming internally.

I’m leaving now — not out of weakness, but because I’m tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of hiding. Tired of begging for someone to simply say:

“Are you okay?”

What Comes After Me

I know some people will call me selfish.

They’ll say:

“She just wanted attention.”

“She was too sensitive.”

“She should’ve asked for help.”

But how do you ask for help...

When your voice has been buried under years of fear?

How do you explain wounds that no one can see?

If there’s one thing I want to leave behind — it’s this message:

If you ever meet someone who’s quiet, withdrawn, or seems distant — don’t judge them.

Look a little deeper. Listen harder. Ask with love.

Because sometimes, silence isn’t peace.

It’s pain.

The Question That Could Have Saved Me

If even one person had asked,

“Ayesha, are you really okay?”

Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this letter today.

💬 Final Message to the Reader:

To every person reading this:

There are thousands of Ayeshas in this world.

Girls who hide pain behind soft smiles.

Boys who joke around but cry at night.

People who walk past you every day, dying inside — while looking perfectly fine.

Be kind.

Be gentle.

Be the one who listens.

Because sometimes, you don’t need to save someone —

You just need to see them.