Ficly the violent silence

She was watching him, waiting

“You don’t know,” he started, “the silence, its killing me inside. I’m dying. The silence, isn’t it affecting you? Or am I the only one going insane?”

The coffee was now resolved to a ring at the bottom of his cup, the cigarette had smoldered out of existence in her hand and they rested the two on the coffee table in front of them.

“Every fear has a sound,” she said as she gazed out the window. They shared a moment of silence. She got up from the chair and sat beside him.

“If you listen close enough, you can hear them. Try it.” She said. The music in the stereo had faded slowly. He could hear the sound of their breathing, chests falling up and down. Through the open window he could her a muffled conversation from a balcony, the sounds of traffic, more life.

He pulled another cigarette from his coat pocket and roughly shoved it into his open lips. He flicked the cheap plastic lighter and he was masked by the smoke.

“Imagine you can,” she whispered in his ear.

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