Chapter 2
That night, I had a long dream.
In my dream, I saw Jayden as a little kid.
He lives upstairs from me. Every day, he'd stomp down in slippers and bang on my door.
"Anna, come out and play!"
"Anna, I saved your place on the slide at school today."
"Anna, you're my best friend. I'll always protect you."
I was ten when my mom passed away.
She fell from the twenty-fourth floor.
I stood downstairs and looked up, watching a dark figure plummet from above, like a kite with its string cut.
For the next three years, I couldn't say a single word.
Jayden came to see me every day.
He was only twelve, clumsily scribbling little notes to me on scraps of paper, trying to talk to me.
[Anna, don't be scared. I'm here.]
[Anna, are you feeling any better today?]
[Anna, when you get better, I'll take you to many places.]
My dad remarried later, but my stepmother never liked me.
When I was sixteen, Jayden got me out of that place.
He said, "Anna, come with me. My parents are your parents now."
Later we got into the same university. The year we graduated, he proposed.
It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
In my dream, the wedding was covered in pink roses.
He knelt down on one knee, his smile bright and pure. "Anna, we'll be together forever."
When I woke up, everything was dark.
My phone screen was lit up.
Sophie had sent me a photo: a rumpled king-size bed with a faint, suggestive stain on the sheets.
My stomach churned.
I rushed to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet, retching.
But I couldn't throw up a thing, only tears streaming down my face nonstop.
In the end, I sat on the cold bathroom floor, staring blankly into space.
I must've accidentally hit something on my phone.
Suddenly, a deep male voice came through the phone. "Anna?"
I jumped.
I picked up my phone and realized I was on a WhatsApp call.
"G-Gavin?" I stammered.
"It's me," he replied. "It's three in the morning. Why are you still awake?"
His voice was calm, like a late-night radio host.
"I-I'm fine."
"You're lying."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
It felt like a hand was wrapped around my throat, squeezing hard.
Gavin didn't rush me.
After a brief silence, he said, "If you don't want to talk, that's okay. I can listen to you breathe."
I clutched my phone, curling up in the corner.
After a long while, I forced out a hoarse, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He paused. "Don't forget your flight next month."
*****
Gavin was someone I met in an online support group for people with selective mutism.
Three years ago, my selective mutism had gotten much better.
During the two years I was with Jayden, I could almost speak normally.
In my spare time, I volunteered on a support platform to keep other patients company.
The person the system matched me with had a white cat as their WhatsApp profile picture, and their username was "SilentFish."
I assumed SilentFish was a quiet girl.
Over those two years, "she" barely messaged me back. And when she did, it was only a word or two.
But I understood that kind of silence.
I kept messaging "her," never minding the quiet.
I'd send pictures of my cooking, my little perfume experiments, and random flowers I saw on the street.
I sent her everything: texts, voice messages, photos, short videos.
It wasn't until six months ago, when we finally had our first call, that I realized SilentFish was a man.
His voice was low and monotone.
He stuttered through the same sentence three times before he finally finished it.
I was so nervous I almost hung up.
But then I remembered how it felt when I couldn't speak, so I forced myself to stay on the line.
After that, we started talking on the phone every now and then.
He was getting better and better.
He'd been speaking much more smoothly these past six months.
But I started losing my voice more and more often.
Last week, he said over the phone, "You haven't been doing well lately."
"I'm fine," I replied.
"Anna, when you used to send me voice messages, it always sounded like you were smiling. Now, it doesn't."
I stayed quiet.
"Is it about your husband?"
I didn't answer.
"You never talk about him. But you've been married for three years, and I've never heard his voice in any of our chats. Not even once."
Gavin was really observant.
I still had no clue what his job was, what he looked like, or where he came from.
I only knew he was abroad, and he often messaged me back late at night.
The time difference was eight hours, which meant it was afternoon for him.
I never knew why he suffered from the same thing I did.
He never talked about it.
I never asked.
It was an unspoken understanding between fellow patients: we never dug into each other's old wounds.
But a month ago, he suddenly said something I never could've imagined.
"Why don't you marry me?" he suggested.
I thought he was joking.
"You don't even know what I look like," I said.
"You don't know what I look like either," he replied.
"Then how could you—"
"Two years," he cut me off. "I've kept every voice message, every laugh, every photo, every single word you've ever sent me.
"Your husband is not good enough for you.
"Anna, marry me."