Silently Crying Novels & Stories

As she watched Ivory’s casket being laid in the ground, Ellie’s heart ached. She felt as if her heart was being torn apart. She stood motionless, with her big budged eyes, which was as a result of crying. Her eyes were fixed on her casket and when she realized she wouldn’t ever set her eyes on her beloved daughter again, tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn’t shout, neither did she create a scene, she just stood there, crying silently in pain. She was too tried to cry and display her grief. So, all she could do was to cry silently as she bid her daughter a final goodbye. As she turned around to take her leave after bidding her daughter goodbye, she felt her legs too heavy for her to carr

But no matter how hard I try, I can't keep my cries from being heard. But, no matter how I try to muffle the sound that I am making, it is still audible for even a deaf person to tell that I am crying. I try to stop crying, but the tears just keep coming. I am a wreck, a mess of emotions. "Stop crying," I whisper to myself, though the words are barely audible. "You're stronger than this." I'm not even aware that I'm saying the words aloud. I continue crying for what feels like hours, my sobs reverberating through the room. I expect Demetrius to scold me. But he remains silent, letting me release my emotions in my own way.

And before I fully registered what was happening I was sitting there with my hands in my lap and my eyes burning and the tears were already on my face. I wasn't sobbing. It wasn't that kind of cry. It was the quiet kind, the kind that doesn't have a lot of sound to it, just heat behind your eyes and your chest doing that slow ache thing and suddenly everything you've been carrying feeling about twice as heavy as it did an hour ago.

But with each passing day, these whispers became louder, more persistent, making it harder for her to ignore them. Jane's silent love for Mike was a ticking time bomb, a storm brewing beneath the calm surface. Each laugh, each conversation, and each shared moment added to the intensity of her feelings, pushing her closer to the edge. As she stood on the brink of this emotional turmoil, Jane was about to embark on an extraordinary journey - a journey of love, of unspoken confessions, and of silent whispers of longing. Her story was just beginning. This was her story - the story of a girl who loved her best friend in silence, the story of silent whispers of love.

Crying and silent, Sofia Grace looked up at me, still sitting on the floor. — Damn it, Grace! — I screamed with all the strength in my voice, bursting into a storm of tears and anguish. I dropped the laptop on the bed, unable to hold it any longer, and covered my face with both hands. — you… — choked on my own saliva. — Why… why… did… you… do that? — I managed to expel the saliva with difficulty.

I take a seat on the pristine toilet, and shove my head into my hands. And cry silently. I'd grown well-versed in the art of silent crying. Since the day my parents left me all alone, whenever I cried I would muffle the sounds of my sobbing, especially since the walls of the apartment were so thin that anyone on the other side could hear if they listened closely enough. I stayed there for so long that my legs started to become numb, but by then I was done letting all my tears out. My phone buzzed in my hand, and I unlocked the screen.

She just stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in fast, shallow gasps. Then, slowly, the first tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a wet path down her temple into her damp hair. She didn't sob. She just lay there, silently crying, her face turning pale and empty. "Stop saying that! It's none of your business," Gianna whispered, her voice dead and flat, "Just leave. It has nothing to do with you."

I found her at two in the morning in the dark kitchen, crying. Not dramatically. Not the kind of crying that announces itself or asks for an audience. The quiet kind — the kind that happens when someone has been trying not to for so long that the trying and the thing itself have become indistinguishable, when the containment and the grief have merged into a single sustained effort that looks, from the outside, like stillness.

No answer came. Only silence. --- My eyes slowly moved to the door. For a second… I wished it would open. I wished he would walk in. I wished he would come and say something… anything. Even if it was small. Even if it was cold. At least it would mean he still sees me. --- But the door stayed closed. And the silence became louder. --- I turned my face into the pillow. And finally… The tears came. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet tears that soaked into the fabric.

My knees were scraped and bleeding beneath the expensive ivory coat. “Great, just great,” I muttered, limping toward the door. “You better not leave a scar.” I followed him into the silent mansion. Then tears started getting to my eyes. “No.. This is nothing compared to the past” I will not cry.