Silent Poetry

The night was slowly settling over the quiet city. A soft breeze touched the empty streets as a young man sat on an old sidewalk, a notebook in his hand and a trembling pen between his fingers. His name was Rehan—the poet everyone called “The Silent Writer.”

He didn’t speak much, but his words were known to stir hearts.

Tonight, however, even his words seemed to have abandoned him.

He wrote a line, crossed it out; wrote another, tore it away. The moonlight fell on his tired face, making his eyes look even more restless.

Just then, footsteps stopped in front of him.

A girl stood there—holding a book, her eyes full of wonder.

“Are you… Rehan? The poet whose lines are painted across the city walls?” she asked softly.

Rehan looked up, surprised.

“Yes… but who are you?”

The girl smiled gently.

“I’m Nyla. And maybe… your biggest admirer.”

Rehan felt a strange shyness take over, but he stayed quiet. Nyla sat beside him, noticing the pile of torn papers scattered around.

“You can’t write tonight?” she asked.

Rehan sighed deeply.

“Poetry comes from the heart… and my heart is silent these days.”

Nyla tilted her head.

“Ever tried talking to someone? Sometimes sharing the silence brings back the words.”

Rehan shook his head.

“Poets don’t talk… we only feel. And when the feelings go quiet, the words fall apart.”

Nyla wanted to say something, but Rehan picked up another page.

“Maybe my words are dead.”

She placed her hand gently over his.

“Poets never die, Rehan. They just need someone… who understands their silence.”

For the first time, Rehan really looked at her.

Her eyes carried a depth he hadn’t seen in years—like a night sky full of hidden stars.

He couldn’t help but smile faintly.

“Would you… like to hear something I wrote?” he asked.

“Always,” Nyla replied.

Rehan unfolded a crumpled page and read:

“I built a world

from the fragile dust of my words—

only for you to walk away

and let it fall apart.”

A soft sadness touched Nyla’s face.

“Who did you write this for?”

Rehan gave a broken laugh.

“For someone who never really saw me. I was just a page in her book, but she never tried to read the whole story.”

Nyla whispered,

“And what if someone wants to understand every part of you? Every word, every wound, every silence?”

Rehan’s heart flickered—

as if the light inside him had been waiting for this one voice.

“Then… maybe my poetry would return.”

Nyla opened her book. On one page was written:

“Words are born from the heart,

but only live

when someone understands them.”

Rehan blinked in surprise.

“You wrote that?”

She nodded shyly. “Yes. I don’t just read… I write too. But no one ever wanted to listen.”

Rehan took the book gently from her hands.

“Then from now on… your every line will be my heartbeat. And my every heartbeat… will be your line.”

Nyla looked down, her smile trembling with emotion.

For the first time, her eyes seemed to breathe.

They continued talking—slowly, deeply, like two souls discovering forgotten meaning.

The cold night didn’t matter.

Their presence warmed everything around them.

Suddenly Rehan grabbed a fresh page.

“My words are back… see—

you’ve brought them alive again.”

His pen began to dance:

“You came,

and my silent words breathed again.

I was scattered—

you pieced me together.

I was a mute poet—

and you became my voice.

You didn’t just hear my poetry…

you became it.”

Nyla whispered,

“Will you give me this poem?”

Rehan shook his head gently, tearing the page and handing it to her.

“No… I can’t just give it to you.

Because this poem is you.

And I don’t want to lose you.”

Nyla hid her smile behind her hair, her cheeks glowing softly.

“So, poet… can I help you write the next poem too?”

Rehan stood up and offered his hand.

“Nyla… you can help me write the whole book.”

And so they walked into the quiet night—

two broken poets,

one healed heart,

and words that came alive again.