A Short Story

In the heart of a city that never stopped speaking—where car horns sang in discord, voices tangled in every corner café, and screens blinked like a thousand restless eyes—lived Mr Johnson , a copywriter who made his living with words.

Mr Johnson was good at talking. Too good, some might say. He could sell a dream in a sentence, bluff through any meeting, or charm his way past a complaint. But over the years, he had grown tired. Not of the noise, exactly, but of the emptiness inside it. Conversations felt like hollow exchanges, each one a transaction. He wondered when language had stopped meaning anything.

On the morning of March 1st, Johnson woke up and made a decision. No words. No speaking, no texting, no emails unless they were strictly required for work. He told no one about his vow. He simply stopped using his voice.

The first day was chaos. His coworkers bombarded him with questions—some laughed, some frowned—but he only smiled and handed out a small card that read: “I am observing a month of silence. I am fine.” His boss, reluctantly amused, let it go as a “creative cleanse.” Clients thought it was a gimmick. But Johnson, for the first time in years, felt alert.

Without words, he began to notice things. A barista’s trembling hands as she steamed milk. The subtle nods exchanged between two strangers on the train. A homeless man on the corner who spoke only with his eyes, who now seemed to recognize Johnson each morning with a knowing glance.

He realized how much of conversation was filler, camouflage for insecurity. Silence, though uncomfortable at first, became a mirror. It revealed what people really wanted to say but didn’t. It made its own space within itself.

By week three, Johnson began visiting a small park during lunch. There, an older man played chess by himself under a rusted gazebo. One afternoon, Johnson sat down next to him and made a move. The man nodded, and they played in silence, day after day. It was the most honest friendship Mr Johnson had ever had.

When March ended, Mr Johnson stood in his apartment and stared out at the city. The vow was over. His voice was his again.

That morning, he walked to his regular café. The barista, who had grown used to his nods and smiles, handed him a coffee.

“Hey,” she said. “So… are you talking again?”

Johnson opened his mouth, paused, and then smiled.

“Only when it matters.”