The Weight of Silence

Colorfall – Avery Pellicciotti

The Weight of Silence

Anja Seyler

The pen clicks again.

I stop, but only for a second. Then I click it again. The sound feels too loud in this silent room. The girl across from me looks at my hand, then back at the paper. I see her trying not to stare, but I can feel her looking at me.

The room smells cleaner. The carpet is rough under my shoes, and the air feels thick, like it is hard to breathe. My foot is tapping against the floor. I don’t know how to stop it.

The paper sits between us on the table.

One line is empty, the other waiting for my name.

If I sign, everything will change. People will begin to ask questions. They will start to look at me differently. Some might even feel sorry for me. Some could be angry. The world will stay the same. The secret is to stay quiet.

“Take your time,” the woman says.

Her voice was calm, but I can hear how careful she is. She begins to fold her hands on the table and starts to wait.

I turn my head, but my throat feels tight. The pen is warm from my fingers. It slips a little in my grip. I rub the pen again and again until it starts to squeak.

I think about my kitchen at home. The chipped brown mug I hide behind others so I don’t have to see the crack. I think about how I leave the radio on in my room every morning, even when I’m not listening, just so the house doesn’t feel empty.

I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself I’m strong. My hands start to shake.

This paper is asking me to write. It is telling me to tell the truth that I have kept locked away inside for years. I learned to smile, how to change the subject, how to pretend everything is normal. I learned how to carry this silence like a heavy coat.

The woman clears her throat. “We can stop if you want.”

I look at the clock behind her. The second hand jumps instead of slowly moving. Tick. Pause. Tick. It sounds like a small heartbeat. I wonder how long I have been sitting here.

If I sign, I become someone who will tell the truth.

If I don’t, I stay someone who tries to hide.

My foot starts to tap faster. My chest is beginning to feel tight. I try to take a deep breath, but it gets stuck halfway.

I think about how tired I am.

Tired of pretending. Tired of carrying this alone, Tired of being quiet.

The pen clicks one more time.

My hand slowly moves toward the paper. The blank line looks bright and empty, like a doorway. I can almost hear the noise waiting for me on the other side. I can hear the quiet that will follow me if I walk away.

My pen touches the paper.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then I begin to write.

The ink looks darker than I was expecting it to be. It spreads into the paper like a shadow covering the page.

My hand is shaking as I write the rest of my name. Each letter feels heavier than the last. When I finish, my chest feels tight, like I have been holding my breath this whole time.

I slowly start to pen down. It makes a soft sound against the table. The room feels different now, like the air has shifted.

The woman looks at the paper, then back at me. She nods and smiles. She does not look shocked. She only nods, like she knew this moment would come. The look on her face shows disappointment.

“Thank you,” she says.

The word feels strange. Thank you. As if I had given her a gift instead of a storm.

My hands feel cold. I press them together, trying to feel them. My heart is beating fast, but it starts to feel light, like something heavy has slipped off my shoulders.

I wait for regret. I wait for the rush in me to tell me I made a mistake. Instead, I just feel tired. Only tired. The kind of tiredness that would come after crying, even though no tears had fallen.

The woman stands there and grabs the papers. The sound of them being put together is sharp in this silent room.

“You can go home,” she says gently. “Someone will contact you soon.”

Home. The word feels safe instead of far.

I stand, my legs feel weak. This feeling I’ve never had before. The chair starts to scrape quietly against the floor. I pause, unsure what to do with my hands, my eyes, my face. For a moment, I want to apologize, even though I wouldn’t know why.

Instead, I nod and turn towards the door.

The hallway outside is long and quiet. The lights are beaming overhead. The smell of cleaner follows me out, clinging to my clothes.

Each step I take feels strange, like I’m walking in a new body. The floor beneath me is cold. Somewhere far away, I hear voices and phones ring. The noise has already started.

But inside of me, there is a small, quiet space where the weight is gone.

I don’t know what will happen next.

I only know that I am no longer silent.