A low-ceilinged bedroom painted in the ebony shades of sadness. Framed by shadowed curtains of which the frayed bottom reached the carpeted floor, barely brushing it as if to say: "I am the curtain and you are the floor. We work in harmony but not hand in hand." A melancholy room with the scent of self-hatred so pure and clear that one can almost taste it upon their tongue, if they so much as wished to. In retrospect the gloomy atmosphere suits the owner of it precisely, who happens to currently be having a fit. Thrashing against the angelic white bed-sheets, ripping fingernails into snowy skin, angry blotches of red scattered across his cheeks in a quiet trail... But don't worry; we mustn't disturb him, so be quiet now. If we disturb him the story may be ruined. 

A second figure resides quite silently in a chair perched by the curtained window. His silence isn't one of annoyance, or anger—in fact it is so far from the two I wonder if you ever thought that at all. It was the kind of silence where the air is thick with the melody of memory, or where the surroundings are as dark as the deep-blue ocean filled with deep-blue thoughts. An impenetrable silence if you will, except not quite; and this I don't know how to explain, for a silence to be both impenetrable but not is something so abnormal one rarely has the chance to think of such words to describe it. But when you look closer—or rather, further—you will see it is not the silence that is important but the way in which it crumbles.

The crumble of silence began with the simple furrow of eyebrows. Something not too noticeable, but to me and you who pay attention it made the world of difference. And next was the breath of air, deep but shallow. Gentle yet troubled. And lastly (be sure to pay attention now, for this is the most important and amazing part) was the name that tumbled through thickly parted lips. It was uttered so sharply it cut through the air like a knife, but the hint of gentleness, the hint of a smile, bandaged the wound in the air.