Chapter 1
The Silent Beginning
Yin’s world had always been quiet.
From the very beginning, his life had been shaped by silence. He was born mute, unable to speak the words that danced in his mind, unable to voice the emotions that played on the edges of his heart. Instead, he communicated through gestures, through the movements of his hands, through written words that left impressions but never quite captured the depth of his thoughts. In a world that echoed with the sounds of voices, his silence had always been a strange, distant thing—a silence that no one truly understood.
Yet, despite the quiet, Yin had always found solace in the world around him. He found comfort in the sounds of nature—the rustling leaves, the distant hum of the wind, the soft tap of raindrops against the windows. And when he wasn’t lost in the world of nature, he retreated into his own mind, a place where words could flow freely, but no one would hear them. It was a small world, but it was his.
At the age of 12, Yin had been sent to a special school, a place where children like him could learn and grow, a place where he could fit in without the constant weight of being different. It was there that he first met War. Yin was twelve, newly transferred, shoulders hunched from the weight of silence he had carried his entire life. He didn't speak—not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His voice had never existed in the world. Born mute, he learned early that silence was both a shield and a cage. His language was movement—his fingers spoke with swift, beautiful clarity, though few could understand.
War was everything Yin was not—bright, radiant, full of life. War was not defined by his blindness. His lack of sight didn’t seem to stop him. In fact, it often seemed to make him more alive than anyone else around him. War had a presence, an energy that drew people to him. His smile—warm, inviting, and always with a hint of mischief—was the kind of smile that made people forget everything else. War never let his blindness define him, and in that, he became a beacon to those around him. War was sixteen and already a fixture at the school—a radiant presence who never needed sight to see the world. He carried light in the way he spoke, in the warmth of his voice, and the softness of his dimpled smile. He had been blind since he was four, but no one would’ve guessed it. He knew how to walk without stumbling, how to laugh without fear, how to recognize people by the way their presence shifted the air.
Yin first noticed War during one of their orientation sessions. War had been talking to a group of students, his voice a blend of calm confidence and youthful excitement. Yin had been standing at the back, observing, as he often did. He wasn’t one to insert himself into conversations, preferring instead to watch and listen. But when his eyes landed on War, something inside him stirred, the air smelled faintly of chalk and sunlight, and the hallways of the special school echoed with quiet laughter, the shuffle of hesitant footsteps, and the gentle tap of walking canes.
When Yin was introduced to the class, standing stiffly with his fingers clutched tight around the edge of his sleeves, War was the first one to welcome him.
Not with a handshake. Not with words. But with an open palm.
A teacher whispered beside Yin, "You can sign into his hand. He likes that."
Yin hesitated, then slowly reached out. His fingers trembled as they began to spell
“Hello. I’m Yin.”
War’s face lit up as the strokes of each letter bloomed against his skin. The corners of his lips curved into a smile so bright, it made something warm and strange twist inside Yin’s chest.
“War,” he replied aloud, fingers gently squeezing Yin’s in return.
And from that moment on, they existed in a shared language—a sacred space where words lived through touch and meaning flowed in silence.
War came from a world filled with things Yin could never dream of—sprawling houses with spiral staircases, weekend family brunches with imported teas, sisters who wore designer shoes to school, and parents who spoke in business terms Yin couldn’t begin to understand.
Yin came from a tiny flat that always smelled like detergent and herbal soup. His mother worked two jobs. His older brother, Jaii, was both overprotective and always a little too tired. Money was always tight. Dreams were always smaller.
But War never treated him like the boy from the other side of the city.
To War, Yin’s silences weren’t awkward—they were comforting. They spent hours sitting side by side in the school garden, War’s fingers tracing Braille books while Yin watched the world move in quiet detail. Sometimes, Yin would guide War’s hand to his chest, over his heartbeat, so he could feel the laughter instead of hearing it. Other times, Yin would gently sign onto War’s palm while they sat on the rooftop, sharing stories in their own secret language beneath the wide, indifferent sky.
And slowly, what began as friendship turned into something more—at least for Yin.
He noticed it first in the way his heart jumped whenever War smiled at him.
In the way he remembered the feel of War’s fingers long after they let go.
In the ache that bloomed when War talked about dating or love in passing, unaware of the boy beside him who listened too intently.
It was unspoken. Unshared. Unrequited.
But it was real.
There was an intensity to War, a sense of purpose in everything he did, despite his blindness. It was that purpose that made Yin want to be close to him, to understand him, to know him in a way that no one else did. And though he never said a word to War, the connection was undeniable. Yin had never known what it felt like to be seen by someone, not truly. And yet, there was something about War—something about the way he moved through the world—that made Yin feel as if, for the first time, someone was looking at him and actually seeing him.
From that moment on, they communicated in a quiet rhythm all their own—sign language traced into a waiting palm, or sometimes through a worn Braille slate that Yin used to tap out simple messages. In between the lines of their palm-speak and hand-signs, something unspoken began to grow.
War made it easy to exist. He never asked for more than Yin could give. He filled silences with warmth instead of pressure. And Yin, who had spent years wrapped in his own invisibility, began to bloom under War’s gentle attention.
They spent slow afternoons in the school garden, the scent of wet grass in the air. War reading aloud with Yin’s hand in his, following along as his finger brushed each word. In winter, Yin would wrap War’s cold hands in his own gloves. In summer, War would describe the sound of wind like it was poetry, and Yin would smile in the sun.
War was sunshine. And Yin… Yin was the shadow that followed it closely, silently, but never too far behind.
But with different class, things changed.
Over the years, their paths crossed in the halls of the school. Sometimes Yin would catch a glimpse of War laughing with his friends, his face lighting up in a way that made everyone around him smile. War had a gift, a lightness about him that made him magnetic, drawing people in without even trying. Yin admired him from a distance, always quiet, always on the edge, watching as War navigated life with such effortless grace. Yin had come to care for him—perhaps more than he should have—but he could never find the words to tell War how he felt.
And so, he remained silent.
Time passed, and Yin’s feelings for War grew stronger, though they remained unspoken. In those quiet moments, Yin would find himself lost in thought, his heart aching with longing. He loved War from afar, watching him with an intensity that he could never express. He loved War’s smile, the way his laughter echoed in the air, the way he could light up a room even when darkness surrounded him. Yin didn’t need to speak to War to feel the connection between them; it was there, in the spaces between words, in the small gestures they exchanged.
Yet, even as his love grew, Yin never allowed himself to act on it. He knew that War could never feel the same way. War, with his perfect smile, his effortless charm, could never be interested in someone like him. Yin knew his place. He was the quiet, serious boy, the one who kept to himself, the one who never asked for more than he could have. And War was the boy who had the world at his feet. He didn’t need someone like Yin, not someone who could never give him the things that others could. Yin had never believed he was worthy of War's attention.
In the final years of school, War seemed to become more and more distant from Yin, as though sensing something unspoken but never addressing it. They rarely spoke, though Yin watched him from afar, noting the small changes in War’s life, the way his smile sometimes seemed forced, the way his voice would lose its warmth when he thought no one was listening. But Yin never dared to ask. He knew better than to push, better than to try and force a connection that could never be.
The years passed. And so did childhood.
And then, graduation came.
War graduated two years early, already a young man with talent blooming into success. His love for architecture, for the structure of unseen things, became his world. His family—wealthy, respected—encouraged him. They moved cities, followed opportunity.
Yin stayed behind, quietly.
The day War stood on the stage, receiving his diploma, Yin was among the crowd. He stood at the back, as he always did, watching, observing. War looked radiant, his smile dazzling as he posed for photos, his friends cheering him on. But Yin’s heart was heavy, burdened with the weight of words that could never be spoken.
As the ceremony ended and everyone began to disperse, Yin lingered at the back of the crowd. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the last time he would see War in this way. That this moment—this small, fleeting moment—would be the last time he could watch War with the same feeling of distance, the same ache in his heart.
And it was then, in that moment of quiet, that Yin made a decision. He would leave. Leave the school, leave his home, leave everything behind. He would try to start anew, to forget the pain of unspoken love, to stop living in the shadows of what could never be.
But as he turned to walk away, he heard War’s voice, soft but clear, calling his name.
“Yin?”
Yin froze.
For a brief moment, time seemed to stop. The world around him faded away, leaving only the sound of War’s voice calling his name. Yin turned, heart pounding in his chest. War was standing there, looking directly at him. His smile was warm, though Yin could see the faintest trace of confusion in War’s eyes.
“I—uh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” War said, his voice steady but unsure. “You’ve always been so quiet... I didn’t really get a chance to talk to you more. I just wanted to say... thanks. For being there, you know? I—”
Yin’s heart clenched in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. The words, the ones he’d longed to hear, were finally coming from War’s mouth. But it wasn’t the words he’d hoped for. They were kind, polite, but distant. Yin knew that War didn’t feel the same way.
And for the first time, Yin felt something break inside him. The words War spoke were not the ones he had dreamed of, not the confession of love he had silently wished for, but they were enough. They were everything he needed, and yet they were nothing at all. Yin didn’t have the strength to respond, didn’t have the courage to speak the truth. All he could do was nod, a soft smile tugging at his lips, before he turned and walked away.
In the silence that followed, Yin knew that this was the end of something.
The end of a friendship. The end of a dream.
He never said goodbye. He couldn’t. He only watched War leave from behind the school gate, his hands clutched tightly at his sides. His heart felt like it would collapse under the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
But he smiled, for War. Always for War.
Even if War never knew what lived behind that smile.
Even if he never knew the way Yin’s heart broke each time someone mentioned his name.
And yet, even as he walked away, his heart whispered the same truth it had whispered for so many years—
“I love you, War. I always have.”
But those words remained locked in his chest, buried beneath the silence he had always carried.
And War never knew.