In the waning light of a humid summer evening, a group of friends gather inside a weathered house, the kind with old fans and pink walls that remember laughter. Time blurs between sips of cheap wine and the echo of an old cassette tape spinning a forgotten love song. Then, without warning, a hush falls over the room. No words. Just the subtle rhythm of breath, the crackle of incense, the occasional glance exchanged like secret prayers. In that silence, everything is said. Their silence is not empty. It is charged. With memories they haven’t made yet. With love they haven’t confessed. With the kind of longing that doesn’t speak the language of noise. In that suspended moment, they are more connected than they’ve ever been. Outside, the world spins indifferently. Inside, time folds. And for a brief eternity, silence becomes their mother tongue.
