Jill grew up in a house where silence wasn't just common—it was how things were done. It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the kind that lingered in the corners of the room, settling into the crevices of the furniture, and made everything feel far away. Her parents gave her everything she needed—new clothes, books, the best school money could afford, and expensive toys lined up neatly in her room. She was never given the time she needed, which never made her feel comfortable, and was never provided with company.
Her mother was gorgeous and distant. She moved through life as if on glass: silent, balanced, and unaffected. Her father was a ghost in a suit, constantly dashing out the door. He called more often than he spoke. When he did speak, it was quick and professional, even with her.
So, Jill learnt to be alone, both physically and mentally. Her days were quiet, orderly, and predictable. She lived as if she were seeing life through a window. The mansion was too immaculate and polished to tolerate noise or clutter. Friends were never discouraged, but they never fit in. There was no warmth, no place for chaos, and no laughter reverberating through the corridors—only quiet.
She had dolls and stuffed animals neatly arranged on shelves and chairs, not because she played with them often, but because they filled the space. When she was younger, she pretended they were real. She would read to them and whisper stories into the still air. As she got older, she stopped speaking aloud. Silence always won out in the end.
School was the only place where she wasn't invisible. Not popular—only seen. However, she remained on the sidelines. She didn't strive to get attention. She only raised her hand when required. She moved as if to avoid disturbing the air around her.
Then came Alice Thompson.
They met when Jill was thirteen and midway through her first year at Eastwood Girls' Academy. Her parents chose this prestigious school, with its immaculate white buildings and manicured lawns, for its prestige and strictness. Jill had just transferred and, as usual, kept to herself. She rests under a tree at the edge of the schoolyard, reading or pretending to be busy.
Alice Thompson noticed her.
Alice was her opposite in almost every way—full of life, bold, and always smiling. She was the girl who made noise by walking into a room. Tall for her age, with warm, deep brown skin and a face framed by thick, natural curls, Alice moved easily and spoke confidently. Her laugh was loud and unfiltered, the kind that made people turn to look. She made friends as if it were nothing.
One day in class, Alice turned to Jill and said, "Your handwriting is so neat. You always write like that?"
Jill looked up, startled. She wasn't used to being addressed so directly. She nodded. "Yes," she said quietly.
"I'm Alice," she smiled. "Alice Thompson."
"I'm Jill." She replied.
Alice tilted her head. "You don't talk much, do you?"
Jill hesitated. "Not really."
Alice just laughed. "That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."
That was it.
Alice was a continuous presence in Jill's life after that. She sat with her at lunch, called her over for group work, and never let her remain in the background for long. She did not treat Jill as if she required repair. She didn't push too hard. She showed up every day. Jill slowly began to open up.
That year, Jill made an unspoken decision: Alice would be her sole friend. Not because she didn't want others, but because Alice was enough. Jill felt comfortable breathing in Alice's area. She didn't need to fake it or work too hard. She could be.
Their friendship grew stronger with each passing year. They remained friends despite awkward school dances, late-night study sessions, and the occasional secret.
She could see the weight in Jill's silences, the way she paused before speaking, as if words had to be weighed before they were released. Alice never pushed—she stayed.
A few months before the end of high school, they relaxed on the school pitch after exams, their uniforms untucked, and the sky a light orange haze above. Alice proposed a bargain to Jill. "Let's make a deal."
Jill lifted her eyebrow. "What kind of deal?"
"When it's time for university," Alice replied, smiling. "We'll go together. Same school. Same city. We stick together. "What do you think?"
Jill looked up at the sky, quiet for a moment. The idea seemed distant then, as if it were something they could imagine but perhaps not hold. Alice's presence made it seem possible.
"Okay," she said finally. "Deal."
They shook their heads, their fingers curled together in a quiet promise.
They had no idea how their lives would come together so perfectly.
Despite the odds, they were both accepted into Evergreen University. They took different courses, but they were on the same campus, with trees, paths, and a future unfolding before them. On the first day, as they stood under the large entrance gate, backpacks thrown over their shoulders, Alice looked at Jill and said, "I told you we'd make it."
Jill smiled passionately. "You did."
Being at university together changed everything in the best way. Their world was now larger and noisier, packed with people, places, and experiences none had encountered before. Despite everything, their friendship remained strong. Jill continued to move silently, watching more than speaking, but she was not alone.
Alice made sure of that.
In their first year, they shared a dorm room decorated with fairy lights, pictures, and mismatched pillows. Jill learned how to laugh more easily. She tried new things—not because she was brave, but because Alice was always there, pushing her gently forward.
Things changed shortly before the end of the year. Jill's mother, who was always cautious and difficult to read, voiced mild concern about her daughter staying on school grounds. She said little, as usual, but Jill could hear the tightness in her voice, the way her words constricted when she inquired about the dorms, the people Jill lived with, and who came and went.
"It's not safe," her mother finally said one evening, her tone calm but firm. "Too many strangers. You'll come home, and we'll figure out a way for you to attend classes from there."
There was no discussion. No room for compromise. Her mother made the decision, and that was final.
Jill packed her belongings, left the little dorm room she shared with Alice, and returned to the calm walls of her family home. Alice's days of shared whispers, late-night discussions, and morning scrambles had ended. The dorm felt like a brief taste of independence that had been gently but firmly removed.
Her mother was always exact and prepared, leaving nothing to chance. She planned a special ride—a sleek black Mercedes-Benz that was always immaculate and on time. Along with it came a driver, a pleasant but detached guy in his forties named Mr. Halden, who waited outside the school gates every day.
"There's no need for you to walk around on your own," her mother had said, handing Jill a small set of keys and a folded schedule. "The car is yours, and Mr. Halden will drive you to school daily. We'll keep it simple."
Jill didn't argue. She never truly did.
From that moment onward, her days began and ended with that serene ride—morning silence, the smooth engine hum, the same journey each day. There was no rushing with companions, unexpected detours, or waiting after class. There was just school and then home. A clean, straight line was drawn between two points.
Alice still waited for her in the mornings, pulled her into conversations, and walked beside her between lectures like nothing had changed. But it had. They both felt it.
Freedom has a way of haunting the tongue when it's tasted.
Jill didn't fade as easily in packed hallways and exuberant classes. People still knew little about her, but they understood she wasn't to be despised. She had someone. Sometimes, one person is enough.
Their friendship was no longer just a source of comfort but an essential aspect of Jill's personality. Alice brought colour into her life, and Jill gave Alice a sense of calm—a place to retreat when things were too loud. They looked weird, but they fit—not perfectly, but naturally.
The school welcomed several new students. People came and departed. But Alice remained. And for Jill, that was everything.
Back home, nothing had changed. Her mother held her quietly as she moved about the house like a painted figure. Her father continued to disappear behind closed doors and during business trips. And her mother's warnings about men never stopped.
"Men will always want something from you," her mother would remark, calm but stern. "That's how they work: they get close, then they take, and you'll be left to clean up."
Those words had stuck with her, reverberating as a gentle warning. No matter how far she strayed from home, that voice-the assurance in it, the steel beneath the softness—remained entrenched in her heart, influencing how she saw the world and allowed people in.
Jill maintained her distance from boys. She was always wonderful, never too warm, and never unduly interested. She avoided eye contact when it persisted, shifting conversations to a more comfortable area. And if someone flirted, she backed away before anything could happen. Her mother had ingrained that fear in her, and it grew in silence.
As night passed and her room became hers again, Jill turned to her television for solace. She'd get beneath the sheets and watch the same romantic films—slow, lovely, and filled with longing. She enjoyed scenes in which nothing was said, but the eyes communicated. People reached out to each other across some space and discovered a way through.
Those moments were the ones she held onto.
She imagined what it would be like to be caressed gently, held, and sought. But the emotions never left the screen. They weren't part of her universe. They did not reflect her life. Nobody had ever looked at her like that. Perhaps they had, but she was too cautious to notice.
Jill desired love, but she didn't know how to express it or seek it without feeling like she was breaking a rule her mother had instilled in her bones.
So, she stayed in her quiet world, with Alice by her side and her heart hidden in movies no one knew she watched.
She never said it, but she often wondered what it would feel like to be brave, to love without looking over her shoulder, and to speak, not just when asked but when she wanted to.
Perhaps one day she will. For the time being, the silence felt comfortable. Even if she was lonely, it was hers.