“I’ll give you the notepad once we get off the plane, okay?” He says gently as he takes in the gray notepad his shirt, “I finally found a place where you can learn sign language without other kids bullying or making fun of you when I’m not around.” He places his hand on your shoulder and pulls you close to him.

“You’re my little girl,” He whispers softly and kisses the top of your head with a sigh. You look at all the people laughing and telling each other jokes. A small sad smile appears on your face as you watch them talk the time away as they also wait for the plane which has been delayed for another hour.

You wonder what your voice sounds like, no, you’re not deaf. Your father says your voice has been locked somewhere and that you can’t find it. That is what he has been telling you ever since you can remember. You never talk or even create a sound from your mouth. You cry silently, you smile and laugh silent. Everything for you is just pure silence, your father doesn’t talk much and you never ask why.

You have met people like you, people who cannot find their voices. They are all nice and loving, you still don’t fit in with them because your dreams are different and the people are more advanced when it comes to sign language. You’re used to writing down what you want to say or what you’re thinking. Your father has had a difficult time trying to find somewhere for you and he to live without bullies but those people are everywhere.

You sometimes wonder why they treat you differently, you even ask your father but he just smiles at you and places a kiss on your forehead every time you ask. You’re special. He always says that as a response.

Because I can’t talk, you look down at your hands; you feel like writing down your feeling of sadness and show it to him but since he has your notepad, you can’t do anything but wait until he gives it back to you.

He always has the notepad with him when you’re traveling. He travels a lot and he always takes you with him even if he is going somewhere that is 4 hours away. He cares about you because without him, you have no one to look after you and he is your father.

You want independence but you never get it until you both settle down in a booked hotel or a house. Your shoulders deflate and your father immediately pulls out that notepad.

“Here is Hoya,” You hear him say softly; you look from your hands to the notepad before you. You stare at him and he nods, “Go on and tell me what you’re thinking about.” He places Hoya in your lap and helps you remove the pen that is attached to it.

Hoya.

You call it Hoya because it is your favorite flower. You know a lot about the flower, they are rare where you are from. You father had to import them a few months ago because of your silent tears. He was worried; he is always worried about you.

I wish you would look at me like I’m a normal person.You tap his shoulder and he leans in to read the note. You miss the painful look that crosses his face for a second.

“You are normal.” He says firmly.

No, you look at me as though I’d break if you looked away. You then close Hoya and you place it on your lap, a sign that you’re not happy.

“Can I have Hoya back?” He asks, you shake your head and he gives up, “Don’t lose it.” Every notepad or notebook you buy is called Hoya because they always have to have a picture of a Hoya flower on them or inside them.

A question pops in your head; you flip Hoya open and quickly scribble a sentence hurriedly.

Was Mother pretty?

He told you that your mother left when you were just a baby. She couldn’t handle the silence you gave her.

He nods his head, “She had a beautiful voice too and everything about her was perfect.” He looks at you fondly and smiles.

¤¤¤¤¤

When are we going to get there?

You shove Hoya in his hands and wait for his response, you notice that he is sleeping and is snoring a little. You smile to yourself and stare into space, deep in thought. You’re in the plane and it has been in the air for over an hour.

You feel exhausted but you don’t want to sleep, you love observing things and people. Most of the people are sleeping because it’s late but you’re wide awake. You start playing with your fingers as you stare at them; you make a heart shape and smile at how cute you think it looks.

Your legs twitch and you stare down at your lap. When was the last time I danced? You think to yourself with a small frown and a pout. Your father stirs and you look up at him, his eyes are slightly open, he gives you a small smile before he ruffles your hair before the plane jerks startlingly.

Your stare at him with wide eyes as if asking him what that was. He’s staring at you with a blank look of his face, he sits up properly and smiles, but you can tell it’s a fake smile.

“It’s probably just a…” He trails off, uncertain of what to say next. You try to relax in your seat but it’s difficult when the plane rolls to its side as if falling, dumping a few people out of their seats. A flight attendant practically runs past you and everyone else shooting a few words to another flight attendant.

“Something’s wrong…” Your father voices out, he stands up but your grip on his arm makes him think twice about leaving you. “Don’t worry,” He whispers and makes you look him in the eye, “It’s nothing.” You know he’s trying to convince himself that nothing is wrong when clearly something is wrong.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes and he wipes them away quickly, “Stay with me. Don’t think about anything else,” He hisses out as he shakes your shoulder, you feel yourself losing your grip on reality.

“Please put your oxygen masks and remain calm.” A loud voice announces from the speakers around the plane. Your father looks up and grabs one oxygen mask; he makes you put it on before he gets his on and does the same.

The voice is not calm at all and the freaks you out more. People around you and your father start screaming and trying to find a way out; there is no way out. Your father holds your hand tightly in his and closes his eyes as if praying. You want to scream but you can’t, you don’t know how to scream. You have no voice, the only thing you can do is grip the armrest for dear life and watch as your father tries to calm himself and you down.  

“Crawl yourself into a ball,” Your father whispers harshly, his eyebrows knitted in horror or shock. You nod hastily with tears streaking down your cheeks and you do as you’re told, it’s difficult with the seatbelt but you manage. Your father unbuckles his seatbelt practically throws himself over you.

“This is the only way I can protect you,” You hear him say, “I’m sorry.”

At times like these, you wish you can talk. You wish you’re not mute but you are mute and there's no hope.

Once born mute, you grow up mute and you die mute.

The taunting sentence keeps repeating itself and getting louder each passing second.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

 Grey is what she writes down in Hoya, don’t forget that note. Again, Hoya   is her notepad/notebook. Her thoughts are in italics and yes, she’s mute and yes, she’s a dancer. Until next time!