Chapter Text
Bonnie was sixteen when she first realized that the world around her was getting quieter and quieter.
At first, it was small things—easy to ignore, easy to excuse.
She’d lean in during conversations, brows pinched, pretending she misheard when in truth she hadn’t heard at all. She’d ask people to repeat themselves, slower, clearer, and she’d laugh it off like it was nothing. But inside, a thread of worry was already pulling tight.
Then came the ringing. A constant, high, metallic whine that lived at the back of her skull. Some days it was faint, like a whisper she could almost forget. Other days, it was sharp enough to drown out everything else.
And then, one morning, she woke up and the world was simply… gone.
Silence—not peaceful, but absolute. A blanket dropped over her senses. She remembers her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, lips moving quickly, eyes wide with worry. Bonnie tried to answer, tried to say I don’t know what’s happening, but the words didn’t sound like anything. She felt them in her throat, but she couldn’t hear them.
The doctors said it was genetic.
A quiet verdict delivered in a too-bright room, her mother’s hand trembling around hers.
Bonnie tried not to accept it. She rebelled the only way she knew how—by shutting the world out completely. She locked herself in her room for hours, sometimes days, curled up with her knees to her chest, pretending that this silence was a choice she made, not something forced upon her.
She stopped talking altogether. What was the point when she couldn’t hear her own voice?
And music—God, music.
She had lived inside it, breathed it as if it were air. Her room used to vibrate with guitar riffs and bass drops, accompanied by the soft hum of late-night playlists that kept her company while she slept. Losing sound felt like losing a limb, a language, an entire world she once belonged to.
But life kept moving, even in silence.
As she grew older, the edges of her grief dulled just enough for something new to take its place. Acceptance didn’t come all at once; it arrived in small, stubborn moments.
Her mother learning the alphabet in sign language with clumsy, earnest hands. Her sister practicing phrases until her fingers ached. Bonnie catching herself smiling again—real, unforced—because communication didn’t vanish; it simply changed shape.
She began to rebuild her world in gestures and expressions, in touch and light. She learned to read lips, to read people, to trust herself again. Sign language became a bridge instead of a reminder of what she lost. Music became memory, not pain.
Silence was still there, but it was no longer a prison.
It was simply the place where her new life began.
—
“Any plans this afternoon?” her best friend, Love, signed as they walked down the corridor, weaving through the end-of-day crowd.
Love was one of the few real friends Bonnie had made in college.
Most people kept a polite distance from the hard-of-hearing girl, unsure, uncomfortable, or simply unwilling to adjust. But not Love. Love never hesitated, never treated her like an inconvenience.
“I was thinking of checking out the new cafe that opened down the street,” Bonnie signed back, her fingers light and expressive. “Want to come with me?”
Love’s smile brightened, apologetic but fond. “I would love to, but my girlfriend’s been sulking. We haven’t seen each other all week. We’re meeting after her class.”
She added a guilty wince for effect.
Bonnie rolled her eyes dramatically, though her smile tugged wider. “No need to rub it in that I’m tragically single and you’re disgustingly happy.”
Love let out a laugh—the kind Bonnie felt more than heard, soft vibrations in the air, amusement written on her face. “I was not doing that!” she said aloud. She does that sometimes—speaks the words instead of signing them.
Bonnie doesn’t mind. In fact, she’s gotten surprisingly good at reading lips, and she appreciates that Love never tiptoes around her silence. Love talks to her the same way she talks to anyone else, switching between speech and sign with an ease that makes Bonnie feel included rather than accommodated.
As they continued walking, Bonnie watched her friend’s expressions shift with each word.
Love wasn’t like Bonnie. She could speak and hear without effort, slipping easily through a world designed for people unlike Bonnie. And yet, she’d never made Bonnie feel “less.”
When they first met during freshman year, Bonnie had been lost—literally and figuratively—standing in the middle of a busy hallway, holding her schedule like it was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Love had tapped her shoulder gently, speaking words Bonnie couldn’t catch.
All Bonnie saw were moving lips and a friendly smile she couldn’t decode.
Panicked, she fumbled for her phone, fingers clumsy as she typed:
I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. What did you say?
She braced for the polite awkwardness, the apology, the quick retreat.
But instead, Love’s face softened. She signed—slow, clear, patient:
Do you need help finding your class?
Relief had flooded Bonnie so quickly she almost smiled on instinct.
Someone here knew sign language. Someone here wasn’t intimidated by her silence.
In that single moment, the campus felt less overwhelming. And just like that, they became friends, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Now, years later, Love nudged her shoulder playfully as they reached the building exit. “Text me if the cafe is good. If their pastries are cute, I want photos.”
Bonnie laughed silently, signing, “I will. Go save your relationship.”
“Go enjoy your single freedom,” Love countered with a wink.
They parted ways with a flurry of signs and inside jokes, the kind only real friends bother to learn—and the kind Bonnie held onto tightly.
Bonnie finally arrives at the café, pushing open the glass door with a small breath she didn’t realize she was holding. It isn’t nearly as packed as she expected, just a scattering of students hunched over laptops.
The kind of place where no one is rushed, where no one seems to mind giving others space.
Still, her heartbeat kicks up a little.
New environments do that.
She’s better now, more confident, more grounded in who she is. She embraces her deafness for what it is: part of her, not a flaw to overcome. But even then, the old fear still slips through her veins sometimes—the fear of miscommunication, of being stared at, misunderstood, or worse, pitied.
Before stepping up to the counter, she opens her notes app one more time.
Everything is listed neatly:
- Iced mocha
- Medium
- Half sugar
- No whipped cream
She also added a polite “Thank you :)” at the bottom, because she worries about coming across as rude when she communicates silently.
Her payment is already in her other hand. Organized. Efficient. Invisible, if she can help it, she never wants to be the reason a line slows down or a stranger gets impatient.
When she finally approaches the counter, she lifts her phone with a practiced smile. The barista—a girl with a messy bun and freckles across her cheeks—reads it, nods, and returns the smile without hesitation. No confusion. No awkwardness. Just… normalcy.
Bonnie exhales, handing over her payment.
She chooses a seat by the window—her favorite spot anywhere. It gives her a view of the street, the passersby, and the way sunlight spills inside. It also lets her keep her back to the wall, where she feels safer, less exposed.
When her iced mocha arrives, the barista places it gently in front of her, tapping the table to catch her attention.
Bonnie nods in thanks, flashes a smile, and immediately takes a picture. Love will want to see the aesthetic, she always teases Bonnie for only sending pictures of beverages and not her face.
She settles back into her seat, wraps her hands around the cold cup, and just… exists for a while.
No music. No noise. Just the shifting of bodies, the movement of lips, the rhythm of the world passing by outside the window. She watches the café like it’s a silent film: someone typing furiously, someone yawning, someone flirting with the barista. She likes moments like this, being part of a world that’s loud without needing to hear any of it.
Eventually, when her cup is more ice than drink and her mind feels a little lighter, she stands. She double-checks her table, making sure she didn’t forget anything, and slings her bag over her shoulder.
Satisfied, she heads for the door, pausing just long enough to take in the cozy scene one final time—the soft lighting, the warm colors, the quiet choreography of people lost in their own moments. A small, content breath leaves her.
She’s more comfortable with herself now. More aware. More accepting.
But sometimes she forgets that the whole world isn’t actually quiet—only hers.
So, she doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her. Doesn’t hear the soft gasp. Doesn’t hear the warning.
She only feels the sudden impact when she steps back and collides with someone.
A cold shock splashes across the other girl’s shirt, droplets of iced coffee spattering onto the floor.
Bonnie recoils, startled.
The girl mutters something under her breath—sharp, frustrated—but Bonnie can’t catch the words, not even the shape of them. The girl’s mouth moves too fast, her face briefly twisting with annoyance.
Heat blooms up Bonnie’s neck. Her stomach drops.
She fumbles for her phone, digging through her bag with shaking hands. Where is it? Where—
Her fingers scrape against keys, gum wrappers, a pen, everything except the one thing she needs. Panic flares.
She finally finds it and unlocks it with trembling thumbs. She rushes to her notes app, trying to type out an apology, but the words blur. She has to delete half of it because of typos. Her fingers won’t stay steady.
Just say you're sorry. Say you didn’t mean it. Say you didn’t hear her—
When she finally manages to type something coherent, she turns around, lifting the phone—ready to explain, to fix it, to do something—
But the girl is already pushing through the glass door, leaving in a stiff, irritated stride. She doesn’t look back.
Bonnie lowers the phone slowly, her heart sinking. She swallows hard, though no sound rises in her throat. She hadn’t meant to bump into her. She hadn’t meant to ruin anything. She just… didn’t hear.
A tightness curls in her chest, familiar and unwelcome—the old fear, the old shame. The kind she thought she’d outgrown.
She exhales shakily.
It was an accident. She knows that.
But it still stings.
—
Emi was only ten when she discovered her passion for music, though, in truth, it felt more like music discovered her.
She remembers the moment perfectly: her mother sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, pulling out an old cardboard box filled with mixtapes from her own childhood. The labels were handwritten, some in fading ink, some decorated with tiny doodles. Emi had thought they were treasures.
Her mother popped one into the dusty tape player and pressed play.
And that was it.
Emi listened to each song on repeat, memorizing not just the melodies but the stories tucked inside them. She’d lie on the carpet with her chin propped in her hands, letting the music pour over her like sunlight. Songs became colors, feelings, entire universes in her mind.
She has loved singing for as long as she can remember.
At first, it was small things—humming under her breath, singing in the shower, belting out choruses while helping her mom in the kitchen. But soon it became impossible to ignore. She wanted more. She needed more.
So Emi joined every school singing contest she could find. Talent shows, community events, even the occasional mall competition where she had to perform on a tiny stage beside a kiosk selling fruit shakes. She didn’t care. Each performance felt like stepping into who she was meant to be.
When she wasn’t singing, she was exploring instruments. First, the guitar—awkward and huge in her twelve-year-old hands. Then the keyboard, then the drums, then anything else she could get her fingers on. She wasn’t a prodigy, not at the beginning, but she was relentless. Her parents finally signed her up for proper lessons when they realized she wasn’t going to outgrow this “phase.”
Music wasn’t just a hobby. It wasn’t even just a dream.
It became her world—the one place where everything made sense and everything felt possible.
Now, at twenty-one, that world has expanded. She’s started a band with her closest friends, a group of misfits who love sound as much as she does. They rehearse in garages, in cramped apartments, in borrowed studio spaces late at night. They argue about chords and lyrics and what their “signature sound” should be. They laugh until they can’t breathe after every messy, chaotic session.
It isn’t glamorous yet. It isn’t easy.
But it feels right.
And for Emi, that’s everything.
—
“Alright, I’m out of here,” Emi announces as soon as the professor dismisses the class. She slings her bag over her shoulder, practically bouncing to her feet.
“Class literally just ended,” Namtan says, watching her with amused suspicion. “Where are you running off to? Don’t we have practice?”
Emi nods, already halfway to the door. “We do, but not until later. Milk’s meeting up with her girlfriend, remember? She begged for an hour of lovebird time.”
Namtan blinks, then snaps her fingers. “Right. I forgot she’s the clingy one in their relationship.” She gathers her things and falls into step beside Emi, weaving through the hallway traffic. “So, where are you off to in such a rush?”
“I need coffee,” Emi says with the conviction of someone stating a universal truth. “A new cafe opened down the street. I’m going to check it out before practice. Maybe it’ll become our new hangout spot if the vibe’s good.”
“You coming?” she asks, nudging Namtan with her elbow.
Namtan lets out a groan. “Absolutely not. I love you, but I’m going home. My condo is calling my name. Today drained me.”
Emi raises an eyebrow. “The semester just started. We spent three hours listening to five different professors tell us their attendance policies.”
“Exactly,” Namtan says, waving a tired hand. “Information overload. I’m exhausted already. I’ll just see you guys at practice when I’ve regenerated.”
Emi snorts, shaking her head. “Fine, grandma.”
They reach the campus courtyard where students swarm in every direction. Namtan loops her bag strap over her head and steps back.
“Alright,” Emi says, giving her a small wave. “I’ll see you later. Rest well, you absolute drama queen.”
Namtan grins. “Enjoy your coffee, you caffeine addict.”
As they part ways, Emi heads toward the street with a spring in her step, unaware that her path is about to intersect with someone else’s in a way she never expected.
The walk is short enough that she keeps her earbuds in, humming along to a rough demo her band recorded last week. By the time she pushes open the cafe door, she’s already imagining herself with a cold drink in hand, sitting by the window and mentally preparing for their evening practice.
Once she finally gets to the counter, she places her order—an iced latte with oat milk. Her comfort drink. Her emotional support beverage. The thing she’s been dreaming of since her 8 AM class.
She waits off to the side, checking a few messages from the band chat, rolling her eyes at Milk’s latest paragraph about how she “might be five minutes late because of love reasons.” Emi smirks, ready to tease her later.
Her drink arrives. Beautiful, cold, full of potential.
She doesn’t even get the chance to take a sip.
A sudden collision knocks the cup from her grasp. The lid pops off as it hits her chest, and the iced latte melts down her shirt.
“Shit,” Emi blurts, staring down at herself in disbelief. Brown liquid slowly drips from the hem of her shirt onto the tiles. “Fantastic. Amazing. The universe hates me today,” she mutters, her voice rising with every word. “That’s just great.”
She looks up sharply, ready for the incoming apology—the oh my God I’m so sorry she deserves, the bare minimum.
Instead, she finds a girl staring at her with wide, startled eyes. Pretty eyes, if Emi weren’t currently caffeinated-from-the-outside-in.
And then… nothing.
No apology. No explanation. No “let me buy you another drink.”
The girl just starts frantically rummaging through her bag like she’s looking for something far more important than apologizing to a person you just bumped into.
Emi watches, irritation simmering hotter with every second. The girl finally pulls out her phone and starts typing at lightning speed.
Emi’s jaw drops slightly.
Seriously? She’s checking her phone right now? No sorry? No nothing?
Emi wipes uselessly at her shirt, feeling the cold seep through to her skin. Her patience snaps like a cheap guitar string.
She doesn’t wait for the girl to finish typing whatever it is she’s typing. Emi turns on her heel, her shoes sticking slightly against the splatter of latte on the floor, and walks straight for the exit.
She doesn’t look back. Not once.
Her day, her shirt, her drink, her mood, are all officially, undeniably ruined.
And all she needed was five minutes and one goddamn apology.
—
“You look like you’re about to commit murder,” Kapook says the moment Emi steps into Namtan’s condo. She’s perched upside down on the armchair, legs dangling over the side like a bored cat.
“I almost did,” Emi deadpans, kicking off her shoes with unnecessary force.
“What happened?” Namtan asks, twirling a drumstick between her fingers. “Did the barista mess up your order at the new cafe or something?”
“No,” Emi mutters, trudging toward the couch. “I didn’t even get the chance to taste it.”
Kapook raises a brow. “Why? Did it evaporate?” She jokes.
“Close.” Emi flops down beside her with the dramatic heaviness of someone whose soul has just left their body. “Some girl bumped into me, and I dropped my iced latte. Like—completely. It went everywhere.”
“Yikes,” Namtan says, wincing.
“It was all over me. Shirt, pants, my soul—everything.”
“Double yikes,” Kapook adds, sitting upright now. “Did she apologize, at least? Or buy you a new one? Or, I don’t know, look remotely sorry?”
Emi lets out a humorless laugh. “Nope. Not a word. Not even a tiny sorry. She just… grabbed her phone and started typing. Like she was texting someone. Like I was invisible. Like she didn’t literally baptize me in coffee.”
Kapook’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Okay. Rude.”
Namtan tries—she really tries—not to laugh, but a tiny snort escapes her. Emi turns sharply toward her, glaring.
“I’m sorry,” Namtan wheezes, covering her mouth. “It’s just—who does that? That’s insane.”
“Exactly!” Emi throws her hands up. “I was standing there, dripping coffee like some sort of coffee fountain, and she was just… doing whatever on her phone! No apology. No eye contact. Nothing.”
“So what did you do?” Kapook asks.
“I walked out,” Emi says, crossing her arms. “What else could I do? I was cold, sticky, and offended on twenty different levels.”
Kapook nods sympathetically. “Understandable.”
“I’m never going back there again,” Emi declares with conviction. “Ever.”
Namtan pats her knee. “Good. We’ll find you a cafe that doesn’t include complimentary humiliation.”
Kapook leans back and sighs dramatically. “Man, I wish I’d been there. I would’ve thrown a napkin at her for you.”
“Thanks,” Emi mutters. “That’s real friendship.”
Namtan snorts. “Oh please. I would’ve helped too. I’d throw a napkin at her after taking a picture of you covered in coffee. For memories.”
Emi turns to stare at her, deadpan. “Fuck you.”
Namtan grins. “Love you too.”
“Where is Milk anyway? She’s usually here before me.”
Kapook glances at her phone. “She’s on her way. She just dropped off Love at her apartment.”
Namtan wiggles her eyebrows. “Ooh, the girlfriend drop-off. She probably got ambushed with kisses.”
Kapook places a hand over her heart. “Imagine someone loving you so much they forget their band responsibilities. Tragic.”
Emi sighs loudly. “I swear, if she walks in with that ‘sorry, I was having a romantic moment’ smile again, I’m kicking her out of the group.”
“You won’t,” Namtan says.
“No, I won’t,” Emi admits begrudgingly. “I’d be a lonely guitarist disaster without her.”
Kapook pats her head like she’s comforting a child. “Yes, good self-awareness.”
Emi swats her hand away.
The three of them fall into easy conversation, the room filled with laughter and exaggerated dramatics, exactly the kind of chaotic calm Emi needed after the disaster at the cafe.
And just as Namtan predicts, a few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door followed by Milk’s unmistakable, lovestruck grin.
—
Love barely has time to step into the apartment when Bonnie suddenly grabs her by the arm and yanks her toward the couch. It’s not a gentle pull—there’s urgency in Bonnie’s movement, the kind that makes Love’s heart skip a beat.
“Bonnie? What’s going on?” Love asks, concern flickering across her face.
Bonnie’s fingers start moving, signing rapidly, almost frantically. The gestures are a blur, so fast and messy that Love can’t make out a single word. Her brow furrows as she tries to follow, but it’s like trying to read raindrops running down a window.
Love reaches out and takes both of Bonnie’s hands in hers, halting the flurry of motion. “Calm down,” she says softly, her voice steady, grounding. “I didn’t understand a single thing. Slow down.”
Bonnie exhales sharply, shoulders sagging slightly. She closes her eyes, as if trying to gather her scattered thoughts, and then begins again, more deliberately this time.
“I ruined someone’s day,” she signs, her hands moving more carefully now, but there’s a weight to her gestures that makes Love’s chest tighten.
Love frowns, tilting her head slightly. “What do you mean?” she asks, her hands responding in gentle, patient signs.
Bonnie explains, slower this time, each movement punctuated by little hesitations, as if the memory itself is painful.
She tells Love how she bumped into someone outside a cafe, sending the girl’s iced coffee tumbling down her front. She describes the sticky mess, the girl’s shocked expression, and the way she tried to apologize but couldn’t because the girl had already walked away before Bonnie could even show her phone with a written apology.
Love watches her closely, reading more than the signs—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands tremble slightly as they move, the small tremor in her lips as she recounts the moment. She doesn’t interrupt, just lets Bonnie pour it all out, letting the words and gestures spill like the coffee Bonnie never managed to clean up.
When Bonnie finishes, there’s a heavy pause. The air feels thick with guilt and frustration. Love squeezes her hands gently.
“Bonnie,” she signs, slower, patient, soft. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it. Accidents happen. She was upset, yes—but you tried. You tried to apologize.”
Bonnie bites her lip, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “I just… I hate that it happened. I hate that I couldn’t fix it,” she signs, the frustration still lingering in the tight movements of her hands.
Love nods, her expression tender. “I know. But you can’t control everything. And sometimes, letting go is the only thing you can do.”
Bonnie exhales, sinking back into the couch. For the first time since the incident, she allows herself a small, shaky smile. “Thanks, Love,” she signs quietly, the weight on her chest a fraction lighter.
Love squeezes her hands once more, grounding her. “Anytime,” she signs back. “Come on, let’s get you some water. And maybe… a chocolate bar. That usually fixes everything.”
Bonnie laughs softly, the first soundless laugh she’s had in hours, and the tension begins to slip away, little by little.
—
“Film wants us to play a gig at her cousin’s bar,” Namtan announces, handing Emi the phone.
They’ve just wrapped up practice—sweaty, exhausted, and sprawled across the room in varying states of dramatic collapse. Emi is sitting on the floor with her guitar in her lap, tuning pegs still warm from their last song.
“Did she specify if she wants us to play anything?” Emi asks, scanning Film’s message.
Namtan shakes her head. “Nope. Just ‘perform something that makes the crowd go wild.’ As if that narrows anything down.”
“We can do that,” Emi says confidently, handing the phone back and stretching her sore arms. “We always make someone scream—or cry—so we’re already halfway there. Any suggestions?”
Kapook perks up from her seat on the couch, where she’s been wiping down her bass. “Remember that time you sang Jealous by Nick Jonas at that gig? The crowd lost their minds. We should definitely bring that back. I didn’t realize how many people were the jealous type until that night.” She laughs at her own joke.
Emi groans. “That was one time. And the crowd suggested it. They wouldn’t stop screaming for it.”
“And they still keep suggesting it,” Milk chimes in with a wicked grin from where she’s lying flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling like she’s contemplating life choices. “But honestly, I’m down for anything. Did Film say when?”
Namtan scrolls back through the messages. “This Saturday. She said her cousin can give us a prime slot if we confirm early. I’ll tell her we’re in.”
Milk sits up instantly. “Great. I’m inviting Love. And she’ll probably bring her roommate-slash-best-friend. More bodies, more noise, more chaos. Perfect.”
“I didn’t know Love had a roommate,” Kapook says as she sets her bass down gently.
Milk nods. “Yeah, she’s just… really shy. Sweet, though. I’ve only met her a couple times. Doesn’t talk much.”
Emi raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Sounds like the complete opposite of you.”
Milk flicks a pick at her. “Balance, bitch.”
Emi laughs, leaning back on her hands, the room warm with the post-practice glow—music still buzzing faintly in the air, the kind of tired that feels earned.
“Alright,” Emi says with a satisfied grin. “Let’s give them a show.”