The classroom was alive with the usual hum of chatter, pens tapping against desks, and the muffled giggles of students too distracted to focus on the day’s lesson. Among the noise, there was one voice louder than the rest—Jason, the self-proclaimed class clown. He had always been the heart of every joke, the king of every prank, and your best friend since childhood.

Today, Jason had a new idea brewing. He turned to you, sitting at your usual desk in the second row, and gave a cheeky grin. Jason whispered, “Watch this.”

Before you could react, Jason swiftly pulled the chair out from under you as you went to sit. The next moment was a blur of sharp pain and gasps from the class. Your head hit the corner of the desk with a sickening thud, and everything went dark.

When you woke up, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that only hospitals carried—sterile and hollow. You opened your eyes, but... nothing. Only darkness. You blinked rapidly, panic rising in your chest, but the world around you remained the same.

The door creaked open, and Jason’s voice broke the silence. “Hey, buddy.” His usual playful tone was gone, replaced with something soft, almost broken.

You turned your head toward the sound but didn’t respond.

Jason continued, his words tumbling out like they were stuck in his throat. “They said... they said you’ll never see again. I—I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was just messing around.”

There was no anger in your silence. You simply turned your face away, your expression unreadable. Jason sat down beside the bed, his leg bouncing nervously. “Please say something,” he begged. But you didn’t.

Days turned into weeks, and Jason never left your side. He skipped classes, stopped pulling pranks, and spent every moment trying to make up for what he’d done.

“I brought you lunch,” he’d say, placing the food carefully in front of you. Or, “I’m here to read your assignments,” his voice quieter than it used to be.

At first, you didn’t react. You simply existed in your world of silence and darkness, your thoughts locked away. But over time, something shifted. Jason began to change—not out of guilt, but out of care.

One evening, Jason took your hand, guiding you to the rooftop of their apartment building. “I know you can’t see it, but the stars are out tonight,” he said, his voice soft. “They’re bright, like you.”

For the first time, you squeezed Jason’s hand in response.

Jason never stopped trying to make amends, not because he wanted forgiveness, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his best friend. And though you never spoke, your silence wasn’t cold—it became a language of its own.

In the quiet, you found something deeper than words.