She sees him before she leaves.

Not fully.
Just enough.

Her eyes move from him to me,
then away again.

I cannot hear what the man says,
but I know the shape of it.

It is loud.
It is familiar.
It belongs.

I meet her glance for a brief moment.

I do not know what that look means.
Curiosity.
Surprise.
Or nothing at all.

I let it pass.

I smile at him instead.

The man who entered the door.

He is my friend.

Yes.
I do have friends.

That surprises people.

My ears stopped listening.
My mouth stopped answering.

But my friends did not leave.

I met Jonah when I was six.

He had scraped knees and loud opinions.
He spoke before thinking
and laughed before stopping.

We met because he sat in my seat
on the first day of school.

I did not tell him to move.
I just stood there.

He looked up, confused,
then grinned and said something I could not hear properly even then.

But I understood his smile.

He moved.

Later, he shared his lunch with me
without asking why I was quiet.

Some friendships begin like that.
Without explanation.

Leah came later.

She was older by a year
and always seemed to know where things were.

She noticed first
that I waited longer before answering.

She never finished my sentences.
She waited for them.

When children laughed,
she stood closer to me.

Not in front.
Beside.

She taught me that waiting
was not the same as pity.

When my words began to disappear,
Jonah stayed.

He talked enough for both of us.

When sound followed,
Leah learned to watch faces with me.

We did not call it lip-reading then.
We called it paying attention.

They never asked me to explain myself.

They grew.
Life pulled at them differently.

But they did not vanish.

The store returns to me.

Jonah is standing at the counter now,
leaning like he owns the place.

He looks at the door she left through,
then back at me.

His mouth moves slowly this time.

Deliberate.

Who was that?

I shrug.

He grins wider.

She’s good-looking,
his lips say.
If you know her, introduce me.

I shake my head once.

Not refusal.
Not agreement.

Just truth.

He laughs anyway
and claps a hand lightly on the counter.

Some things do not need sound
to be understood.

The store feels warmer.

Not louder.

Just occupied.

To be continued…

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