The Silence I Broke

At the same time, a message popped up:

[Ticket's booked. See you in Parisia in a month.]

***

That night, Nathan showed up in my dream.

Not the smug jerk he became—but little Nathan.

"Joelle, your eyes are so pretty. Can I look at them when I talk to you?"

"Joelle, you play piano so beautifully. Can I come listen every day?"

"Joelle, I like you the most! When we grow up, I'm gonna marry you!"

And I liked him too.

We sat together in class, played after school.

Even the day my parents died, I was in his family's car, goofing around.

We were mid–rock-paper-scissors when the truck came out of nowhere.

Boom—

My parents. My brother. Even my dog. Gone.

The cars were impossibly close—I watched helplessly as my entire family perished.

After that, I couldn't speak.

Couldn't sleep unless Nathan was there.

He used to be different—gentle, patient.

Helped me learn to talk again. Told me stories when the nightmares got bad.

Anyone called me "dumb," he'd deck them. No hesitation.

Marrying him? Back then, it just felt right.

The day after I graduated college, he leaned over my bed at dawn.

"Joelle, let's get married."

So we did. Just like that.

In the dream, roses were everywhere—blood red, flooding the bed we used to share.

He knelt on it, kissed me.

"Joelle, we'll be this happy forever."

Then I woke up.

Pitch black.

I fumbled for my phone.

New message—from Sophie.

A photo.

Their bed.

Trashed.

Red smears across the sheets.

My stomach twisted.

I ran for the bathroom, dry heaving over the sink.

Nothing came up—just tears.

I slid to the floor, hugging my knees, freezing tile under me.

At some point, my hand must've hit something on the screen.

Then—

A deep voice.

"Joelle?"

My heart stuttered.

I grabbed the phone. "Wi–William?"

***

William Windsor was just another name on the patient list. One of us.

Three years deep into therapy and yeah, aphasia still flared up now and then, but I could talk again. Mostly.

Unless I was spiraling.

In the early days of my marriage, I was doing alright. Life felt... breathable. So I joined a support group. Got paired with a check-in buddy.

That buddy? William.

For almost two years, I thought he was a girl.

His profile pic? A pink bunny.

Username? "Angel."

In the beginning, "she" barely acknowledged my existence.

But I got it.

We didn't stay quiet because we wanted to. Sometimes life just sucker-punched the words out of us.

We might not say much. It didn't mean we didn't need someone.

So I kept texting.

Tiny slices of my life.

Voice notes. Stupid pics. Random videos.

Eventually, it felt like we'd been besties forever.

Then came our first call—and bam. System error.

He was a guy.

***

"S-Sorry," I whispered, clutching my phone. "I... didn't mean to bother you..."

"You didn't," he said. "It's 9 p.m. here."

His speech was so smooth now.

And that was only our second call.

Ever since I found out he wasn't a girl, I'd kept my distance—hadn't texted or talked to him for almost a month.

This time was a total accident.

Last time, Nathan handed me the divorce papers.

William just happened to text and ask what I was doing.

My brain just short-circuited the second I saw the divorce papers.