Mireya Solen believed silence was the safest place to live.
Not because she liked it—but because silence never disappointed her.
Every morning, she walked the same hospital hallway, her shoes making soft sounds against the polished floor. Nurses hurried past. Doctors spoke in fast voices. Machines beeped like impatient birds.
Yet somehow, Mireya always felt invisible.
She liked it that way.
"Good morning, Mireya," a nurse called.
Mireya nodded politely. She tried to smile, but it came out small and careful, like she was afraid it might break if she pushed too hard.
She worked behind the scenes—cleaning rooms, organizing supplies, doing the quiet jobs no one noticed unless they weren't done. People barely looked at her face, and she was grateful for that.
Looking meant questions.
And questions meant talking.
Talking meant remembering.
She stopped in front of Room 317 and sighed softly. Someone had spilled coffee near the door again.
"Why do people bring coffee everywhere except the trash bin?" she muttered.
She bent down to clean it—and bumped straight into a pair of shoes.
"Oh—!" she gasped, losing her balance.
Strong hands caught her arms before she hit the floor.
"I'm so sorry," a male voice said quickly. "I wasn't looking."
Mireya froze.
Her heart beat once. Hard.
She looked up.
He stood close—too close—holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. His other hand still hovered near her arm, as if afraid to touch her too much.
He looked just as surprised as she felt.
"It's okay," she said quickly, stepping back. "I wasn't looking either."
That wasn't exactly true. She was always looking. Just never forward.
He gave a small smile. "Guess we both failed."
That made her blink.
She wasn't used to strangers joking with her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway felt quieter than before, as if the hospital itself was holding its breath.
"I'm Mireya," she said before she could stop herself.
Why did I say that?
He seemed just as surprised—but pleased.
"I'm—" He paused, glancing at the paper in his hand, then back at her. "I'm someone who shouldn't be blocking hallways."
That made her laugh.
It slipped out before she could hold it back.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't perfect.
But it was real.
His eyes widened slightly, like he'd just heard something rare.
"Well," he said, smiling now, "that makes two of us."
An awkward silence followed—but not the uncomfortable kind. The gentle kind. The kind that didn't demand words.
Mireya pointed at the paper. "Is that… a letter?"
He looked down at it, then nodded. "Yeah. Something like that."
"Are you going to give it to someone?"
He hesitated.
"No," he said honestly. "Probably not."
She didn't ask why.
Some things didn't need answers.
A nurse suddenly shouted his name from down the hall.
He flinched.
"That's me," he said. "Duty calls."
Before leaving, he looked at her again. "Um… thanks. For not falling."
She smiled. "Thanks for catching me."
He walked away, disappearing around the corner.
Mireya stood there longer than necessary, her heart making unfamiliar noise in her chest.
Silence had always been her home.
But for the first time, it felt… crowded.
And somehow, she didn't mind.
What do you think was written in his letter?
And why do you think Mireya avoids talking so much?