What You Do Speaks So Loudly Novels & Stories

The Loudspeaker announced, causing everyone to hesitantly and slowly quiet down. "Alright, that's better. Now to answer the question that Poppy Hale asked," those words caused Poppy to jump a little in panic, "What I want from you all is to see what will make you fall the hardest into a pit of desperation and madness." "Alright, enough with the fancy talk. What do you really want with us?" I spoke up, irritated with how high and mighty this person was acting. "To be honest, I was saying all of that to try and sugar coat this, but I guess there's no point. I can think of a way later." The voice sighed, before finishing off their speech.

"It wasn't me…" I opened my mouth to speak, but only a hoarse sound emerged. Since returning to the Shaw family a year ago, I was very careful not to say anything, fearing that one wrong word would hurt this precious family I'd finally found. I still remember the day I returned home. Dad cooked barbeque ribs for me. Mom held my hand, promising I would never suffer again. My sister, who now seemed to want to crush my bones, once fought tooth and nail against bullies who mocked me at school.

He taught me that you don't have to be the loudest person in the room to be the strongest. He used to say that the bread rises in the quiet, not the noise. If you poke at it too much or shout at it, it falls flat." Alexa paused. The cold face mask slipped just a tiny bit. She had spent her entire life surrounded by men like her father and her uncles men who thought power was about how loud you could yell and how much blood you could spill. Here was a man, built like a tank and twice as dangerous, talking about the "quiet" of a bakery.

My heartbeat felt too loud in my ears, but I forced myself to keep speaking. “Because you already know what it feels like to lose something fundamental to who you are,” I said quietly. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

This time it’s harder. The sound in the kitchen is too loud. I hate that even that small sound feels like a confession. “You don’t need him,” I say loudly. Saying it in my head hasn’t worked. The words land flat, against the silence. They don’t fully believe in themselves. “What kind of man does that?" I ask the room.. The room doesn't say anything. Maybe that's the point. The answer is right in front of me. I don't like it. I pick up my phone again. This time I didn't put it down.

he asks one night. Not look like. Not accomplish. Feel like. “Spacious,” I say without hesitation. “Grounded. Honest.” He nods. “Then let’s protect that.” Protection becomes our shared language. We protect mornings. We protect certain weekends. We protect how we talk about each other in public. We protect disagreement from turning into spectacle. And most of all—we protect quiet. Not because we’re hiding. But because quiet is where we hear ourselves think. Still, there’s temptation. The world doesn’t stop pulling.

Her fingers finally moved, typing: “I see you. Even if the world doesn’t. You don’t owe them silence. You owe yourself the chance to speak.” She hit save. And in that quiet moment, the walls didn’t just listen. They spoke back.

So when they called my name again—this time at the closing brunch, a sunlit event with garden tables and white linens and a crowd that felt far too bright—I stood slowly. No speech in hand. No rehearsed lines. Only the steady drum of my heartbeat and the knowledge that silence had protected me for long enough. I walked to the mic. Cleared my throat. “I’m not sure what to say,” I began, the breeze catching the hem of my pale green dress. “Except that I’ve spent the last few years learning how to speak again. Not with perfect words. But with honest ones.” The crowd quieted. “I’ve been honored for my work, and I’m grateful. Truly. But tonight, I want to talk about the work I didn’t choose. The

“Do you ever rest?” I smiled without turning. “Rest is overrated.” He walked closer. “You should teach me how to do what you do.” “What do I do?” I asked, amused. He hesitated. “Everything. You speak like every word matters.” I turned to him then, my lips curving slightly. “That’s because they do.” He sat down, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know how you make it sound so… easy.” “It isn’t,” I said. “It never is. But that’s why it’s powerful.”

Or maybe—undress me. “You graduated top five percent. Why law?” “Because I want to help people who don’t have voices,” I replied, practiced but sincere. He smirked. “You’ll find most clients who can afford us have very loud voices. We make them louder.” I didn’t know if that was meant to impress me or test me. “I can amplify anyone’s voice. Even the ones screaming into the void.” That made him lean back, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “I like confidence.”