The Silence Law

In Year 73 of the Order, words were not forbidden—but their meanings were.

We spoke in approved phrases. We greeted each other with, "May your days be Balanced," and we answered with, "And your life Harmonious." There were entire volumes written on what one could say, when, and how. The government issued pocket glossaries. Schools tested us on Appropriate Expression.

But no one talked about Affection.

Not truly.

I was ten when I first noticed it. My older cousin, Ara, had stopped laughing. She used to fill the room like a sunrise—bright, warm, unashamed. But after her 16th birthday, she became quieter. She stared at windows like they were exit doors.

One day, I asked her, "What’s your favorite word?"

She looked around. Then she whispered, "Whisper."

I didn’t understand then. I do now.

---

My name is Elen. I live in Sector Nine, where Expression Officers patrol markets and train stations, listening for the unsanctioned. We carry black tokens around our necks to prove our vocal obedience.

Everyone has a Token.

Mine is cracked.

---

The Silence Law was passed before I was born. It didn’t say love was banned—only that certain unspecified emotional alignments were considered destabilizing to the State.

So instead, we say things like:

"Your aura is familiar."
"You align with my forecast."
"You make the quiet loud."

But there are no words for what I feel when I look at Layn.

---

Layn is soft-voiced and storm-eyed, with a laugh that sounds like rebellion. They arrived in my class last winter. Wore their hair wrong. Wrote their essays in spirals. Got marked for Re-Education three times, but still came back humming.

We started trading notes—safe phrases at first. Then drawings. Then shapes of our own invention. A square meant "I see you." A triangle meant "You make me feel like flying." A broken line meant "I’m scared."

---

We met under the old train station ruins, where the metal had long stopped listening.

"What would you say if you could say anything?" I asked them once.

They drew a circle in the dirt. Inside it, they wrote: You.

I didn’t cry, but something inside me did.

---

The State announced new restrictions that spring. All students were required to pass the Vocal Conformity Exam. Anyone who failed twice would be sent to the Correctional Choir—a place no one returned from speaking.

Layn failed once. Deliberately, I think.

I passed. Perfectly. I had learned how to speak without saying a thing.

---

On the night before the final exam, I found a note in my satchel. Just one sentence:

"Meet me in the silence."

I ran to the train ruins.

They were waiting.

No words. Just presence. Just shared breath.

We pressed our foreheads together. I whispered the word I had never spoken aloud:

"Love."

It echoed.

Something in the sky cracked.

---

The next morning, Layn was gone.

I wore their broken Token under my uniform, over my heart.

When the exam started, I stood. I looked at every face in the room. The proctors. The cameras. The terrified eyes of those who wanted to speak but didn’t remember how.

Then I opened my mouth and said:

"You are not alone."

Silence.

A different kind of silence.

And then, one by one, voices rose.

Not in harmony.
Not in order.
But in truth.

---

My name is Elen.
I broke the Silence Law.
And now, we are learning how to speak again.