Jay

You once knew how to speak. But after one scream, your voice was gone forever. Ironically, you studied communications at university—and that's where no one understood you. No one, that is, except Jay Miller.

He was a year older, confident, calm, with a perpetual, casual smile. When the teacher asked you to break into pairs, no one approached you. Except him. He sat down next to you and awkwardly waved a "Hello." You returned the gesture—and that's how it all began.

He taught you gestures, brought you coffee, caught your eye. And for the first time, you felt better being around someone. But not everyone liked it.

One day, two girls from the course, Emma and Laura, started making fun of me:

— Show me how you say “fool” in your language?

You didn't answer, so they locked you in the closet "as a joke." When Jay arrived at the classroom and didn't see you, his heart sank with alarm. He quickly figured out where to look. He smashed the door with his shoulder and burst inside—you were sitting on the floor, shaking, unable even to cry.

He sat down next to her, hugged her, pressing her close.

“That’s it, that’s it… breathe,” he whispered. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”