One college girl never spoke to our teacher. One day, the teacher yelled, “Hey!” Did no one teach you to speak? She suddenly rose, grabbed his marker, and scrawled on the whiteboard:
Can speak. I chose not to. Not with those who think shouting makes them right.”
Silence filled the room.
No one moved. No matter how nervously he tapped his pen in class. We were trapped between awe and shock. The teacher stood there, red in the neck, wondering what to say.
Her name was Liana.
She joined our class during the second semester. Always sat in the second row, same seat, black hoodie, headphones around her neck but never over her ears. She focused. Took notes. Submitted assignments early. But said nothing.
Some considered her pretentious. Others said she was silent. Some rumors spread about her terrible experience. I never believed it, but I never inquired. Most didn’t. She stated that she was not there to make friends.
That day with the whiteboard? Everything changed.
As usual, she was alone at the vending machines after class. I walked over, hands sweating, tummy knotted. I wasn’t sure why I was nervous—maybe because I was going to talk to our college mystery.
I said, nearly whispering, “Hey.” That was impressive. You kind of stifled class.”
She smiled slightly as she looked up from her iced coffee can. “Not planned. Just tired.”
I blinked. “So you talk.”
She nodded slowly. “When it matters.”
After that, we talked more. Not much. Liana never filled silence for no reason. But her words mattered. Later, I realized she wasn’t mute or unpleasant, just watchful. Guarded. She may be tired of being labeled.
We sometimes gathered after class. Get snacks. Sit under the large oak tree near the library and simply exist. We sometimes spoke little. The silence never felt unpleasant. I felt secure.
Then one rainy afternoon, I asked her the question everyone was afraid to ask.
“Why not talk in class? Like ever? I know you’re smart and outgoing.”
Sighing, she traced her coffee cup rim. When I spoke in high school, someone always interrupted me. Or misinterpreted me. Or boosted themselves with my answers. I eventually quit fueling the system.”
Sounds exhausting.”
It was. So I stopped. I thought people would recognize me by what I did, not just what I said.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
She regarded me. “You did.”
Word spread that Liana had spoken weeks later. People wanted to sit next to her suddenly. Ask her opinion. Some were real. Others? Not so much. She didn’t change. She attended class, listened, took notes, turned in work early, and spoke only when required.
Our professor matched her with three of the class’s most chatty, self-absorbed persons for a group project. I was in another group but kept looking across, wondering what would happen.
At first, they ignored her.
They sought to give her all the work.
Not arguing. Calmly recorded all they said. On presentation day, she stood alongside them but let them speak.
Stumbled. I forgot points. Mix-up slides. Secretly blamed her with uneasy glances.
Liana was then directly asked by the lecturer.
She went to the projector, changed the slide, and said, “The data shows this. And why.”
Five minutes. She needed nothing else.
Clear, calm, bulletproof.
Professor smiled. “Now that’s presentation.”
One groupmate apologized after class. “We thought you wouldn’t say anything.”
Liana nodded. “Exactly.”
Some weeks later, our college organized a writing competition with another twist. Everyone could enter for a decent prize and a chance to be published in a major magazine.
I entered.
Many department students did.
No one anticipated Liana to.
Her narrative was “When Silence Grows Teeth.”
No one knew the purpose. She kept it private. Everyone was talking about it.
Results arrived mid-April.
She won.
Not second. Not second.
First place.
Curiosity filled the school. People who hadn’t seen her before followed her, asking for writing ideas, befriending her, and professing to constantly believe in her.
But Liana stayed.
She wasn’t rude. Just didn’t perform.
At the awards ceremony, she collected her plaque, smiled sweetly, and stated, “Sometimes the loudest voices aren’t the wisest.”
Hard clapping hurt my palms.
Under the same oak tree, we celebrated that night. She packed two sandwiches. I brought Coke. We didn’t need party.
“You deserved that,” I responded, eating my sandwich.
She shrugged. Maybe someone gets it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you entered?”
I wanted to help myself. No stress. No expectations.”
That moment was memorable.
Final examinations arrived. Everyone was slammed by stress. Panic ensued. Sleeping in library. Some cried in restrooms.
Liana? Calm as always.
Until she disappeared.
Absent from class. Not to tree. Not to library.
I texted. Called. Nothing.
Two days.
She was seated on the student center steps with puffy eyes and a low hoodie on the third day.
You okay? Sitting beside her, I inquired.
Her words were delayed. She added, “My dad had a stroke. The ICU has him.”
I froze. “Oh my god… So sorry.”
With glossy eyes, she nodded. “He raised me alone. Night shift worker. Never grumbled. I feel like the ground broke open.”
Not knowing what to say. So I sat. That’s sometimes all you can do.
Over the next few weeks, I covered her class. Took notes. Lectures recorded. Submitted her assignments with aid. The instructors sensed trouble but didn’t act.
She returned for finals. Quiet. Focused. But different.
This silence wasn’t peaceful. Quite heavy.
After tests, we sat under the oak again. It was warm. Warmth that hugs bones.
“I read your story,” I responded finally.
A slight smile. “Yeah?”
It hit hard. Especially the girl who screamed into pillows because no one listened.”
Her eyes relaxed. “That part was real.”
„I figured.”
No one saw the twist coming.
The lecturer who shouted at her in public? He suggested she get a scholarship. A large one. Full ride. Creative writing. Out of everyone.
She wasn’t convinced when she learned.
“I thought he hated me,” she gasped.
I shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t know you. And now he does.”
She remained silent. It seems she might cry.
She spoke the following semester. Voluntarily.
Not creditable. Not for show.
Ten minutes at a university open mic.
Her topic?
The Day Silence Spoke Louder Than Words
