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Cecilia doesn’t speak.
She never has, not since the moment they met. No dramatic accident. No tragic backstory (at least, not one Gigi knows about). Just… silence. A permanent hush tucked into the edges of her presence.
But that doesn’t mean she’s quiet.
She points. She shrugs. She raises a single unimpressed brow that somehow communicates more than a ten-minute rant could. Sometimes she signs, and sometimes she just grabs Gigi’s wrist and drags her along like a very determined wind.
And Gigi follows. She always follows.
Even now.
Cecilia tugs her toward the garden like she’s on a mission, eyes bright with something unspoken. Gigi doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t need to—not when Cecilia’s grip says “Come with me” better than words ever could.
It’s always like this.
Simple. Quiet. Complicated.
Cecilia doesn’t speak.
But she flails when she’s excited. She holds Gigi’s hand like it’s second nature. She tilts her head and smiles and curls her fingers around Gigi’s like she’s afraid to let go.
Gigi tells herself it’s nothing. That Cecilia’s just like that. That the flutter in her stomach is a me problem, not a her problem.
Because it doesn’t mean anything. Except it does.
And Gigi knows it. She just… doesn’t let herself say it. Not even in her head.
Not yet.
…Cecilia doesn’t speak.
But when she tugs Gigi through the garden gate, she doesn’t need to.
The air is warm, dusk painting the sky in sleepy lilacs and fading golds. The grass is overgrown, soft and stubborn beneath their feet. Somewhere, a breeze rustles through the leaves like it’s trying to say something too.
From somewhere nearby, the faint sound of a radio drifted through the warm air — the soft strumming of a guitar, a voice singing words about chasing cars and not caring where they go.
It was the perfect soundtrack for a moment neither of them needed to fill with words.
Cecilia doesn’t look back.
She never does.
She just assumes Gigi will follow. And she’s right.
She leads them to the centre of it all—the mess of tangled ivy and half-bloomed flowers, the crooked stone path that doesn’t really lead anywhere, and the patch of grass that somehow feels like a clearing meant just for them.
Cecilia lets go of her hand.
Gigi almost says something dumb like ‘Hey, rude.’
But then Cecilia’s already dropping down onto the grass, plopping onto her back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for some reason, Gigi’s heart skips a beat.
Because—ugh. It’s that thing again.
That soft, slow pull in her chest whenever Cecilia does something human and casual and completely devastating.
“God,” Gigi mutters, flopping down beside her, “you’re such a menace.”
Cecilia doesn’t respond. Of course she doesn’t.
She just turns her head and looks at Gigi. And Gigi—like an idiot—turns to look back.
It’s unfair, the way her eyes catch the sky like they belong there. Like they’re holding it up.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Gigi whispers, her voice half a laugh, half a plea.
Cecilia just raises her eyebrows, confused.
Gigi groans and throws an arm over her face. “Never mind. I’m projecting again.”
Silence. The grass tickles her arms. Somewhere nearby, something chirps. Cecilia shifts slightly, the sound of fabric brushing against grass soft and close.
Then—
Fingers.
Sliding gently against her wrist.
Not pulling this time. Just... staying.
Gigi peeks out from under her arm.
Cecilia’s hand is there. Palm open. Waiting.
Gigi stares at it. Long enough that it gets awkward.
Then she reaches over and lets their fingers slot together.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
They lie like that for a while. The world around them softens.
“I talk too much,” Gigi says eventually. Her voice is quiet now. Not performative. Not teasing. Just… tired. “I think I do it to fill space. Because if I’m not talking, then I have to feel stuff, and that’s way worse.”
Cecilia squeezes her hand. Once. Firm and steady.
Gigi stares up at the sky. The clouds are barely visible now. Just blue turning to grey. Just time moving on.
“I think if I told you what I was feeling, really feeling, I’d ruin it.”
No answer.
But she feels the way Cecilia shifts a little closer.
“Like, what if you don’t feel the same? Or worse—what if you do?” Gigi’s voice cracks a bit, and she hates that. “What if you feel the same and I mess it up anyway?”
Cecilia pulls their joined hands toward her chest, curling around it like a shield. Or maybe a promise.
Gigi swallows hard.
“I wish you’d say something,” she whispers. “I know you can’t. I know that. But I still—sometimes I wish I could hear it. Just once.”
The words hang there, fragile and half-spoken, and for a moment all Gigi can hear is the wind threading through the garden, the hush of leaves shifting like they're listening too.
Cecilia doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just holds on tighter, like her silence is something intentional—something sacred.
And Gigi, selfishly, aches for the impossible.
She brushes her thumb gently along Cecilia’s knuckles, like maybe she can say something with that. Like maybe her body will be braver than her mouth.
Her voice is quiet when it comes. “Sometimes I try to imagine what you sound like.”
Cecilia blinks, then tilts her head, curious. A question without asking it.
“I know, it’s dumb,” Gigi adds, nervous now. “I mean—I’ve never heard you. You could sound like anything. But…”
She brings Cecilia’s hand to her lips. Not a kiss exactly. Just… resting there. Like it belongs. Like it always has.
“You’re warm,” she whispers against her skin. “So I think your voice would be too.”
Cecilia’s expression softens. There’s a shift in her shoulders, the kind that happens when you’re really listening.
“And I think you’d laugh in this way that’s kind of annoying but also the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. Like…” Gigi squints at the sky, searching for the right image. “Like water. Not loud. Just… running over stones or something. The kind you don’t realise you’ve been missing until you’re right next to it.”
Her face burns immediately. “God, I sound like a pretentious poet.”
Cecilia shakes her head.
Not no, exactly. Just a sort of amused, fond little shrug.
Gigi looks down at their joined hands. She brushes her thumb over Cecilia’s fingers again, slowly, deliberately this time.
“There’s stuff I imagine that I’ll never say,” she admits. “Like what you’d sound like if you said my name. Or if you said please stay. Or even just hi, in that dumb everyday kind of way.”
She pauses, heart racing. She can’t look up.
“And there’s stuff I think about saying to you, but I chicken out every time. Not because I don’t mean it. Just because I—”
Her voice falters.
Cecilia is still watching her. Not blinking.
“I’m worried if I say it, it’ll make it real,” Gigi says. “And if it’s real, then it can be broken.”
There’s a beat.
A pause filled with wind—soft, and warm, and quiet.
Then Cecilia lets go of her hand, only to reach up—fingers trembling, just a little—and gently touch Gigi’s cheek.
Her lips move. Slowly. Deliberately.
No sound. Just shape.
I love you.
Gigi freezes.
But Cecilia doesn’t stop there.
She mouths something else, eyes steady, voice still nonexistent but clear.
You don’t have to say it.
I already know.
And Gigi—
God, Gigi could fall apart.
Instead, she leans in and presses a kiss to Cecilia’s forehead. Just there. Just soft.
Then she pulls back and laughs, a shaky little thing, trying to joke through the wreckage in her chest. “That’s cheating, you know.”
Cecilia tilts her head, smirking.
Then—without a word—she taps her own forehead. Right where Gigi kissed her.
Gigi groans. “Stop being cute. It’s illegal.”
Cecilia shrugs, completely unrepentant.
And Gigi finally—finally—says it.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… simple. Honest. Bare.
“I love you too.”
Cecilia doesn’t cry. But she glows in a way that makes Gigi want to write terrible poetry and rename every star after her.
They lie back again, fingers tangled, hearts full, nothing else to say.
The world forgets itself for a while.
And although Cecilia doesn’t speak. Gigi finally hears her anyway.