It started small—like static at the edge of sound.

Bailey Dofen was in the middle of a match, everything moving exactly as planned.  

Her serves were sharp, her returns perfect, her control absolute.  

And then, suddenly, the world dimmed.

The shuttle hit her racket, she saw it fly—but she didn’t *hear* it.

The echo of the hit should’ve filled the court. Instead, there was nothing.  

Not silence, exactly—just the sound of her pulse, heavy and close, as if the air itself had been swallowed.

*Not now.*  

She forced her body to keep moving, rhythm without rhythm.  

Her breath quickened; her fingers trembled on the grip.  

Somewhere in the blur, her coach called her name, but she couldn’t catch it.  

The world was light and shape and nothing else.

When the last serve hit the net, she didn’t even realize it until the referee stepped forward.  

Someone was saying something—she could see their lips move—but everything else was distance.

Man Olid saw her before anyone else did.  

He wasn’t supposed to be there; he’d told himself to give her space.  

But space felt overrated when she looked like that—frozen mid-match, eyes unfocused, shoulders locked.

He pushed through the small crowd by the railing, ignoring the officials’ protests.

“Bailey!” he called. Nothing.

He tried again, louder. Still nothing.  

And then she looked at him—really looked—and he saw the flicker of panic in her eyes.  

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even fear.  

It was the hollow, aching kind of realization that something inside you has gone quiet.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Later, she would remember the pressure of his hands—not forceful, just *there*, grounding her.  

He didn’t talk. Didn’t shout. Just mouthed words she could read.

*It’s okay. I’m here.*

She stared at his lips, trying to process the meaning when no sound followed.  

Her throat tightened. She shook her head. He shook his, slower.

*Breathe,* he mouthed.

She did. Once. Then again.

Slowly, like surfacing from underwater, the world began to return—a creak of shoes on the floor, a whisper, a breath.  

Then the faintest sound: his voice.

“Good,” he said softly. “There you are.”

Her eyes stung. “I—I’m fine,” she whispered, the sound shaky but real.

He exhaled, half laughing, half breaking. “That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said I’m not buying it.”

She wanted to argue, but her voice betrayed her; it cracked, fragile as glass.  

Man reached up, brushing a thumb beneath her eye. “Don’t,” he said. “You don’t have to keep pretending with me.”

She froze. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hide when it hurts.”

Her breath caught. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll just stay until you can.”

She blinked hard, looking anywhere but him. “You don’t have to fix this.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “But I can hold it with you.”

That broke something in her—quietly, like a thread pulled loose.  

She didn’t cry, not really. She just… stopped fighting the silence.

Minutes passed. The hall emptied.  

She sat on the court floor, knees drawn close, and he stayed beside her, wordless.

Finally, she spoke. “It happens sometimes.”

He turned his head. “The silence?”

She nodded. “When I push too hard. Or when I feel too much.”

He waited.

“It’s like someone unplugged the world,” she said. “Everything moves, but I don’t hear it.  

And for a few seconds, I think—maybe it’s easier that way.”

Man’s chest tightened. “Easier?”

“I don’t have to react. Don’t have to disappoint anyone. Don’t have to feel.”

He looked at her for a long time. “That’s not easier, Bailey. That’s surviving.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

“No,” he said softly. “Surviving means you’re alone. Living means someone’s still there when it goes quiet.”

Her eyes met his. For once, no defenses. Just raw, tired truth.  

And she realized something: he wasn’t trying to fix her. He just refused to leave.

The noise in her head didn’t come back all at once—but the first thing she heard clearly was his laugh, quiet and unsteady.

“Guess this means I’m officially terrible at staying away.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re officially terrible at everything.”

“Except showing up.”

“Don’t make that a habit.”

“No promises,” he said, and for a heartbeat, the silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore.  

It was full—alive, and maybe even safe.