Silence

1

The worst part of my workday is entering the newsroom in the mornings. Correct that. The worst part is the silence it brings. Every day. I can hear them chat before I appear. They're gathered, drinking coffee, socializing. As soon as they see me the room goes quiet. I hate it.

I make my way past them. Head bowed. Staring at the floor. Fully focused on my desk in the back corner. I'm wrong. The silence isn't the worst thing. It's the whispering that happens directly after. Like they don't think that I can hear them. Hurtful words.

"Hi."

I ignore it. He didn't greet me. That's impossible. I fumble with my notebook. Nervous. I keep my eyes glued to the floor. Heart beating fast. I drop my book. It sounds like a bomb going off in the silent room. I lean down to pick it up. Fumble again. I want to run. Out of the building and never look back. I can't. I hurry to my desk and sit down with a relieved sigh. I made it.

I open my notebook for comfort. My eyebrows wrinkle. Something is missing. My latest poem. The one I wrote this morning. I tore the paper afterward. Removed the poem from the notebook because it felt too personal. I was about to crumble it into a paper ball when I changed my mind and put the paper back in the notebook. It's not here.

I flip through the notebook. Stress levels skyrocketing. I'm about to get up to search for it when someone touches my arm. I flinch. Almost scream. I look up just to find him there. Smiling. Curious blue eyes. He looks friendly. As if.

He's holding something. My eyes fall on a piece of paper and I gasp. My poem! No! No! No!

He puts it in front of me and touches my arm again to get my attention. As soon as I glance at him he raises his hands and starts to sign.
"You dropped this."

He talks as he signs. Northern accent. I sign a quick "Thank you."

I'm surprised. He knows sign language? Why? One of my many therapists practically forced me to learn it years ago. I'm a bit rusty.

I'm waiting for him to leave but he just stands there. Smiling.
"I'm Louis. What's your name?" He signs as he talks.

Should I tell him that I'm not actually deaf? No. Then he'll be embarrassed.
"Harry." I sign instead.

"It's nice to meet you." Louis says while he signs it simultaneously.

I don't answer. He seems to hesitate.
"I like your poem. I'm sorry that I read it. I didn't know that, ehm, that it was private." He's still signing. He makes a few smaller mistakes but I understand him perfectly. Both languages. The one coming out of his mouth and the one he talks with his hands.

I blush. Fiercely. I want to run away. Scream. Did he understand that the poem is about him? It doesn't seem like it. Oh, God.

I realize that he's waiting for my reply. I sign "thank you" again.

He smiles and then he finally walks away. I let out a breath of air I've been holding in. My eyes fall on the poem and I read it. Frantically looking for clues that could point to him. I freeze.
The last few lines. Pretty obvious. Is it? Maybe not.

A beautiful, ethereal, (short) and blue-eyed stranger. But still, just a stranger.

I slam the book shut. Sink down in my chair. Hide behind my hands. Covering my face. I wish I could just stop existing at this moment. Mortified. Embarrassed. I feel like crying.

My mind is spinning. If he understood that the poem is about him, why was he just nice to me?

I'm trying to boost my confidence. The poem isn't that bad. That revealing. I called him beautiful. So what? He is beautiful. That's a fact.

He didn't seem repulsed. He said he liked the poem. Maybe it isn't that bad? Maybe I can move on from this? He has probably forgotten all about it by now.

Deep breath. Remove my hands over my face. Glance over the top of the desk. No one is looking at me. No one is talking about me. No one is laughing at me. He hasn't told anyone about my poem. I love him for it.

I relax. I open my mail and start going through the tips I have received. Gossip, gossip, gossip. I hate it. I decide which ones to use, which ones I need to do research on. Look at Pap pictures. Before I know it it's time for lunch. Everyone disappears into the break room. I never eat there. Can't stand it.

I take the opportunity to use the restroom. I hurry over. Lock the door. My sanctuary.

I hurry back to my desk afterward. Take out my lunch. Salad. Juice box. Always the same. The juice is warm and the salad is a bit soggy but I prefer that over having to put it in the fridge. Avoiding everyone's eyes at me at every cost.

I realize that today is the first time anyone has spoken to me since I started here two years ago. They tried at first. It didn't take long before they talked about me instead. But today he talked to me. It makes me emotional. No one talks to me, except our boss once in a while. When he has to. I don't think he likes me that much.

I finish my lunch and get back on the computer. Glance at the clock. It's not like I have something to go home to but I'm not that keen on being here either. I start to write a story about a former girl bander and a possible pregnancy. I feel tacky. Dirty. Awful.

Before I know it the workday is over. I gather my things and rush out the door without looking around me. Missing the blue eyes curiously watching me leave.