She stands in front of me.

For a moment, I forget what to do with my eyes.

They rest on her face longer than they should.
Not because I am bold.
Because my mind hesitates.

Then I remember.

I cannot hear.

Her lips move.

At first, they are only movement—
soft, uneven, unfamiliar.
Like waves that do not know the shore yet.

They rise.
They fall.
They shape meaning without sound.

I shift my attention.

This is how I survive.

I watch her mouth carefully now.
Not her eyes.
Not her expression.

Her lips begin to settle into rhythm.

I have learned this rhythm slowly.

Not from books.
From necessity.

When sound began to leave me,
people kept talking as if it had not.
Their mouths continued moving,
expecting answers.

At first, I guessed.
I failed often.

Later, I learned patterns.
How b closes softly.
How f rests on teeth.
How m hums without sound.

Faces taught me what ears no longer could.

Now, her lips form words I recognize.

Her lips say it clearly now:

Excuse me… where can I find…

I understand.

Relief arrives quietly.

I point.

Not abruptly.
Just enough.

A shelf.
Second row.
Left side.

She follows my gesture, nods once,
and walks toward it.

I do not watch her go.

Watching feels like crossing something.

I return my eyes to the counter.

She comes back with a few items in her hands.

It is early.
Too early for the usual noise of people.
Too early for other employees to arrive.

On Sundays, the first hours belong to me.

No cashier yet.
No supervisor.
Just shelves and lights and routine.

I step forward.

The scanner wakes with light.
I pass each item over it slowly,
careful not to rush the moment.

Numbers appear on the screen.

I turn it toward her.

She reads.

Reaches into her bag.
Pays.

The machine accepts it without complaint.

I tilt my head slightly.

A small bow.

It is how I say thank you.
How I have always said it.

Without sound.
Without explanation.

She takes the receipt.

Turns toward the door.

She takes the receipt.

Turns toward the door.

For a second, the store holds its breath.

Then—

The door opens.

A man steps in, energy first, body second.

He smiles wide.

Loud, even without sound.

“Hey, Ariel, my man!
How’s it going?”

His mouth moves fast.
Familiar.
Unafraid.

The store feels suddenly smaller.

I am still facing the counter.

She is still near the door.

Between us, something has shifted—
not broken,
just interrupted.

The light hums above us.
The scanner waits.

Silence rearranges itself around the words
I cannot hear
but know were meant for me.

To be continued…

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