I've always hated silence.
Not the gentle kind that comes at midnight, when the whole island is asleep and the sea breathes slow and steady in the dark. That kind of silence is soft. Kind. Like a hand on your back saying, "Rest now."
I mean the other kind. The silence that feels like something's wrong. The kind that stretches too long in a room after someone walks out. The kind that makes your breath feel loud and your presence feel too much.
The first time I felt that kind of silence, I was eight years old.
It was a weekday. I don't remember which. Maybe Tuesday. Maybe Thursday. The only thing I remember is how the sun was too bright, and how the school fans just pushed the heat around instead of cooling anything down.
It started with lunch.
That day, I had fried fish in my lunchbox - the usual, wrapped in warm rice and banana leaf, still oily from this morning's pan. I didn't mind. I liked how the crispy skin stuck to my fingers. It was my favorite part.
But the moment I opened the lid, the smell hit the air — sharp, fishy, unmistakable.
I didn't even get the spoon in before my classmate, Marco, groaned loud enough for the entire classroom to hear. "Ugh, what is that?" he said, covering his nose. "Did something die in there?"
A few kids snorted. "It's fish!" someone said. "Smells like she brought the whole wet market to school!"
I shut the lid fast, but the damage was done. The smell lingered — and so did the looks.
By the time recess ended, they had already come up with a name." Smelly Fish." Simple. Cruel. It stuck.
They shouted it in the hallway. Held their noses when I passed. One girl — I forgot her name but never her face — even pulled her chair away from mine and whispered, "Don't sit near me, your lunch smells like garbage."
I didn't cry. I just laughed along, like it was all part of the joke.
I laughed even when my stomach growled during math class. Even when I dumped the untouched fish into the trash behind the library. Even when I stayed behind during dismissal so I wouldn't have to walk home with anyone.
That was the first time I felt it — that strange flutter in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just something tight and wrong, like my heart wanted to disappear before anyone else noticed it was there.
But when I got home, my mother wasn't laughing.
She was in the living room, phone pressed to her ear, pacing like the floor might fall apart beneath her. Her voice was low and broken. Not loud crying - the quiet kind that sits deep in your throat. The kind that tells you now is not the time to speak.
I stood by the doorway, sweaty, hungry stomach, holding my lunchbox like a shield. I wanted to ask her if she bought snacks. If we still had the coconut biscuits I liked. I wanted her to look at me.
But I turned away instead, walked outside, and sat on the concrete steps until the light faded and the mosquitoes came out.
That was the first time I felt it. A flutter. Not from nerves. Not from joy. Just a strange, light skip inside my chest - like a heartbeat lost its rhythm, and the rest of my body forgot what to do with it.
People assume loud girls don't have secrets. They think that if you laugh hard and talk fast, you must be okay.
By twelve, I knew how to make people laugh even when I wasn't okay. By fourteen, I could turn any awkward moment into something funny. By sixteen, I stopped talking about the strange beats in my chest. The tiredness. The way my breath sometimes caught for no reason.
Because no one likes a broken girl. Especially one who doesn't look broken.
Back in the present, I stood behind the café, iced coffee in hand, letting the heat settle into my skin. It was late afternoon, and the air was heavy, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back and your thoughts slow down.
I could still hear him inside, talking to Jules, laughing about something small. That quiet laugh of his that always caught me off guard. It didn't ask for attention. It just happened, soft and full of light.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Tried to breathe normally. Tried to ignore the familiar flutter building behind my ribs.
This one wasn't the scary kind. Not like the one when I was eight. This was the other kind. The stupid kind.
The kind that shows up when he leans on the counter and tilts his head just slightly. When he asks how I'm doing and actually waits for the answer. When his smile starts in his eyes before it reaches his lips.
I shouldn't like him.
Not because he's wrong for me. But because I don't know how long I can keep pretending that everything is fine.
I'm not sure how long I can keep hiding the tiredness behind my jokes. The quiet behind my noise.
But I don't tell him. Of course I don't.
I finish my drink. Shake it off. Head back inside with a smile so practiced, it almost feels real.
Because some things are better left unspoken. And butterflies? They're easier to swallow than explain.