Into the Silence

Into the Silence, She Drives Me by

In a box, I hide a letter from an old friend. A few words to say I am fine, but you are not and will never be again. You need me to be gone.

One day, the “last” day, we went for a pleasant drive and laughed like maniacs. You were always good at that. Laughing made us close, but then life happened, and your laughter turned into sobs and tears. It wasn’t funny anymore.

The shadows are lengthening now, and this is what I think as I wait for her return. I hear her footsteps approach the door. She opens it slowly and gently, trying not to make a noise, but the door creaking is audible, telling me she has come back. Once again, we are together.

A quiet moment in the sun, and she smiles at me, smiles away the tears that were about to fall, and soon we’re laughing at how foolish we’ve been these past months. All those old jokes, all the times we sat down to talk and laugh about the world around us.

She walks over and sits beside me, and as if the world knows this is our favourite spot, it bends into silence. And then, just like that, she’s gone, her eyes searching the trees that cover the woods, searching for her answers. But I can see them in each twig, every leaf, and each tree trunk; there is a tiny bit of magic.

We left that place without saying another word, and I felt a part of me was released. When we finally returned home and were settled in bed, I drifted off into a sleep that was so deep it almost seemed like more than a dream.

It’s not hard to understand why some people love this—some even dream of flying free. The songbirds do not get the chance to live like that; they want to fly high so they can see far beyond what we see now, to see the beauty of the world, but these birds are now stuck down here on earth where they belong.

I wish we could leave everything behind and soar up into the sky to find a place where there is nothing to be afraid of, where there are no rules or boundaries or anything else to break, shatter, and ruin your heart. All you have to do is sing.

In a box, the only thing that remains is the word “I,” which holds an indestructible truth. To my love, I’m sorry for the laughter.





J. Iner Souster is a painter of landscapes and portraiture, a sculptor who creates musical instruments out of reclaimed materials, metal dresses from handspun metal, and a collection of upcycled FauxBots. He’s also a photographer, musician, illustrator and mixed media artist. His writing has appeared in Spillwords, Friday Flash Fiction, A Story in 100 Words, 100 Word Project, The Drabble, and 101 Word Stories.

Twitter  – @iner

Instagram – inersouster

Facebook – Iner Souster

Artwork by Iner Souster



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