The Quiet Dance of Words

It was a quiet afternoon in Malang, the kind that seemed to stretch forever, like time was in no rush. The sun dipped just below the horizon, casting long shadows across the small garden behind the house. I could hear the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city, but inside the house, there was only silence. The air was thick with the kind of tension that comes from not saying what needs to be said, but there it was, lingering between us.

Hera, my wife, stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. I could hear the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board, each slice a sharp, deliberate sound. But I couldn’t focus on it. My thoughts kept wandering back to our conversation earlier that day. It wasn’t a fight, not really, but it felt like something was missing. Like we were both speaking, but not really listening to each other. I had wanted to talk about Chan, our two-year-old, and how he seemed to be growing up so fast. But the words, they never quite came out right.

"You’re quiet tonight," Hera said, her voice soft but cutting through the tension. She didn’t look up from her work. It wasn’t an accusation; it was just a statement, a simple observation. And yet, it felt like she had reached inside my chest and pulled out the truth I had been hiding.

I didn’t answer right away. What could I say? I wanted to explain everything—the frustration, the exhaustion, the fear that I might not be enough for them, for our family—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I did the one thing that felt easier: I nodded.

"I’m fine," I said, though even I could hear the lie in my voice.

Hera paused, the knife hovering just above the cutting board, and for a moment, the silence between us grew even deeper. The sound of the knife against the board started up again, but it wasn’t the same now. It felt... hollow, like it was missing something. Like it needed the rhythm of conversation to make it whole.

I stepped forward, wanting to break the silence, but unsure of how to do it. Words are so tricky, aren’t they? So often, we speak without truly listening, or we listen without understanding. It’s easy to get lost in the noise of everyday life, to forget the importance of saying what really matters. And that’s where we were, stuck in a loop of unspoken words.

"Do you remember," I began, my voice almost a whisper, "the first time we talked about having Chan? We were sitting on the roof of that little café in Batu, the one near the waterfall. You told me that you wanted to have a family, to have a child, but that it wasn’t just about the baby. It was about us, about creating something together."

Hera didn’t stop chopping, but her shoulders relaxed, just a little. She didn’t need to say anything. Her silence spoke volumes, and I knew it meant she was listening. Really listening.

"I still want that," I continued, feeling the weight of my own words. "But sometimes, I forget. I forget to listen to you. To listen to what you need. And I... I don’t want to lose that."

Hera finally turned to face me, her expression soft but thoughtful. "I need you to be present," she said simply. "Not just physically, but with your words, with your heart. I don’t want to feel like I’m always the one carrying the weight of everything we don’t say."

I felt a lump form in my throat. She was right, of course. I had been so caught up in my own head, in my own fears, that I had forgotten the most important part of being a partner, a father, a husband—being there, truly there, for the people who matter most.

"I hear you," I said, finally meaning it.

There was a long pause, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic chop of the knife on the board. But then, slowly, Hera set the knife down and came over to where I stood. Without a word, she took my hand, and together, we stood in the quiet of the room. And for the first time in a long while, I realized that the silence wasn’t something to be afraid of. It was just the space where we could listen, where we could find each other again.

The dance of words, I thought, wasn’t just about speaking. It was about listening too. And in that moment, I understood that communication wasn’t just the exchange of words. It was the shared understanding, the unspoken connection that held us together.

And as we stood there, hand in hand, I knew that, despite all the noise of life, we would always find our way back to each other. Not just with words, but with the quiet moments in between.

I could feel the weight of that silence even as I walked down the familiar street to work the next day. Malang had always been a place of contrasts, from the bustling markets to the peaceful rice fields just outside the city. The old city center was full of history—colonial buildings and shops that had been passed down from generation to generation—but there was always a sense of quiet there, too. I liked to think it was a reflection of the people who lived here: steady, rooted in tradition, yet always moving forward in their own way. That kind of duality was something that had always spoken to me, and I had always appreciated it, especially on mornings like this one.

As I walked, I thought back to that evening in the kitchen with Hera. How easy it had been to let the little things slip—things that should have been addressed, things that could have been said. But silence, in the end, had forced us to confront the truth. Maybe that was the beauty of it—the way it could expose everything without a single word.

I thought of Chan, his laughter ringing in the air like music. He was so young, so full of life, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. How many moments had I missed? How many times had I let my own worries steal my attention? I needed to change. I wanted to change. Not just for me, but for him, for Hera. For us.

I pulled out my phone, tapping a few quick words into a message for Hera. "I love you. I promise to be better. We’ll get through this, together." I hit send and slipped the phone back into my pocket, feeling a small, hopeful weight lift off my chest. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Communication wasn’t always perfect, but it was a step forward.

At work, I was surrounded by the usual noise of the showroom—motorcycles being revved, the chatter of customers, the rhythmic clanking of tools. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, but it was a kind of noise that had always comforted me. There was a routine to it, a rhythm I could follow. But today, everything seemed a little louder than usual, almost like the world itself was reminding me of all the things I had been avoiding. Maybe it was the way the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, or the fact that my mind kept drifting back to the conversation from last night. Or maybe it was just that I had been carrying around too much unspoken weight, and now it was starting to show.

"You okay, Fendy?" my colleague, Rudi, asked, looking up from his desk. He was always one for small talk, the kind that seemed meaningless but had a way of breaking through the noise when you least expected it.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about... stuff."

Rudi raised an eyebrow, his expression softening. "Everything alright at home?"

I paused. Should I talk to him about it? About Hera, about Chan, about all the things I was trying to figure out? But no, that wasn’t the kind of conversation you have in a showroom full of customers. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah," I said again, this time with a bit more certainty. "Just... working through things. You know how it is."

Rudi nodded, but didn’t press further. Sometimes, people just know when to let silence fill the space. And in that moment, I appreciated it. It gave me time to think, to reflect on what I needed to do.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally. The work had been busy, the noise relentless, but as I stepped out into the cool evening air, I felt a sense of relief. It was the kind of relief that comes from realizing you’re on the right path, even if it’s just the first step.

When I got home, Hera was already in the living room, sitting on the couch with Chan curled up in her lap. She looked up as I walked in, her face softening, and for a moment, I wondered if she could see the shift in me. Could she tell I was trying? Trying to listen. Trying to be there.

I sat down next to her, placing my hand gently on hers. "How’s he doing?" I asked, nodding toward Chan, who was already fast asleep.

"Good," Hera said, smiling. "He’s growing up so fast, it’s hard to keep up sometimes."

"I know what you mean," I replied. "He’s... he's amazing."

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, I truly listened. Not just to her words, but to the quiet in between them. To the rhythm of her breathing, to the soft sound of her fingers brushing Chan’s hair. It was a dance of words, unspoken but deeply felt. The kind of dance that doesn’t need steps to be understood.

And in that quiet, I found my way back to her.

Fendy Satria Tulodo is a writer and storyteller with a keen interest in the intersection of language, memory, and sound. His writing delves into the nuances of human emotion, often weaving lyrical prose with rich, introspective narratives. Beyond the written word, he is also a musician and songwriter, releasing music under the name Nep Kid. Drawing inspiration from a wide range of genres, he explores the rhythm of thought and the resonance of untold stories, whether through literature or music.

Image created by Krin Van Tatenhove using Midjourney AI