Day 67.
It started in the middle of a conversation.
We were sitting under the cherry tree in front of her house.She was telling me about a dream she had.
"It was… a place. Somewhere I—"She stopped.
Brows furrowed.Eyes searching.
"I… I saw someone. It was a… um…"
She looked at me helplessly, as if the words had slipped between her fingers.
"It's okay," I said softly.
But her lips trembled.
"Why… can't I say it?"
Later that day, she tried to write it in her notebook.
But what came out was a tangle of half-finished sentences.
"There was a…""I remember… it felt like…""He was… someone I—"
Then scribbles.Then silence.
Day 66.
She stopped mid-laugh.
We were watching a movie.She pointed to the screen and said:
"He's just like…"
She trailed off.Looked at me.
"I can't find the word," she whispered.
She started carrying sticky notes.When she couldn't say something,she would draw small pictures.
A cat.A sun.A heart.
Once, she handed me a square with a badly drawn umbrella and the word:
You.
I kept that one.
Day 65.
I found her crying in her room.
Hands shaking.Notebooks torn.A pen snapped in two.
"I tried to write," she said."But it doesn't come out."
She buried her face in my chest.
"I'm still here, right?""Even if the words leave?"
I held her tighter.
"Yes.You're still here.""Even if you never say another word.""I will still hear you."
That night, I recorded her voice while she slept.Soft breathing.A small murmur.One word.
"Ren…"
I saved it in my phone.
A single file.
Labeled: Still here.
"Day 65.Her words are leaving.But her eyes still speak volumes.""And I'll learn to listen without needing sound."