The Risk From I Signed Alone, The Wedding I Called Off Chapter 07
I went back to Fairview and started treatment. Radiation.
Follow–ups. Voice therapy. From barely a whisper to forcing out a single syllable.
Through all of it, Bryce kept texting. (I listened to your
grandmother’s recording today. I remembered how you used
to hold that cassette recorder against your chest whenever
you missed her. How the hell did I just hand it over?]
I didn’t reply.
Another text came. [Hazel came looking for me. I didn’t see
her. She says she’s ruined. But you were almost ruined too, and I did nothing.]
turned off my phone.
Six months into treatment. My follow–up scans were stable. I
landed a copywriting job at a voice production studio. The
boss’s name was Owen Cross.
At the interview, he asked, “Are you okay with clients who
demand endless revisions?”
I wrote on my whiteboard: [Yes]
He asked, “Are you okay with a boss who talks way too much?
I wrote: [How much is too much?]
He said, “Like, I’d spend thirty minutes debating whether the
tapioca pearls in a bubble tea ad have a soul.”
I laughed out loud. My voice came out scratchy and rough.
Owen froze. “Wait, was that not funny?”
I shook my head. I wrote: [It was good.]
After I started, he really was impossibly chatty. Every
morning he asked if I wanted ice in my coffee or not. Every
lunch he wondered if the deli lady downstairs had gone crazy
with the jalapeños. Every evening he pointed at the sky and
asked if that cloud looked like a squashed fish to me.
At first I typed all my replies. Eventually, I managed short
sentences. He’d say ten things. I’d say one. He never acted like that ratio was weird.
One day my throat was particularly sore. He noticed and
immediately went silent. Then he wrote me an entire page of sticky notes.
[This is your voice–rest–approved Owen Cross. But sticky notes
can still be annoying. If I get to be too much, just stick me on the trash can.]
I peeled the last one off and stuck it to his forehead. He said, Fair enough.”
I laughed so hard my shoulders shook
That night, Bryce sent another text. [Elara, I still want to hear your voice.]
I deleted it.
Owen leaned over from his desk. “Ms. Vance, the boba place
downstairs has a buy–one–get–one deal. You in?”
I said, “Yeah.”
The word came out unsteady. But it came out.
Owen grinned. “Celebrating that one word.”
I corrected him. “Two… words.”
He clapped. “Impressive.”
I looked at him. And I realized something. Getting your voice
back didn’t have to start with screaming someone’s name. It
could start with yeah. Or no. Or “I’m hungry.” Or “I want to live.”
A year later, the first audio drama I helped produce went live.
It was called Unheard. It hit a million plays on launch day.
The comments were relentless toward the male lead. [Men
like this in real life deserve every bad thing coming.]
[The line where she says ‘you made the choice for me‘ destroyed me.]
[Sound is proof of love. And proof of loss.]
No one knew that story had a source. Except Bryce.
He emailed me. [I listened to every episode. That scene where
the guy kneels in an empty apartment and finally hears the
whole message–I threw up. Elara, I finally understand how much pain you were in.]
I didn’t reply.
Later, the platform wanted to buy the screen rights to
Unheard. At the business meeting, Bryce was there. After
leaving his old company, he’d taken a consulting gig at a smaller platform.
Halfway through the meeting, the director introduced the
creative team. “This is the writer behind Unheard–Elara Vance.”
Bryce’s head snapped up. The pen in his hand clattered onto the table.
Everyone looked at him. Someone asked, “Mr. Whitman, you know her?”
His mouth opened. Not a single word came out.
I stood up.
I nodded to the room. “Hello, everyone. I’m Elara Vance.”
My voice was quiet. But it was clear.
Owen sat beside me and opened my laptop. Bryce stared at
us. Every ounce of color drained from his face.
After the meeting, he followed me into the hallway. “Elara.”
Owen stepped in front of me.
Bryce looked at him. “Do you know she could barely speak a year ago?”
Owen said, “Yes.”
Bryce’s voice went tight. “Do you know she speaks slowly?
That her throat gets sore easily?”
Owen nodded. “Yes. So when she speaks, I listen. I’m never in a hurry.”
Bryce went rigid.
Owen went on. “If she doesn’t want to talk, I wait. If she wants
to talk about nonsense. I listen. Is that hard?”
Every bit of color bled out of Bryce’s face.
I looked at him. “Bryce, some things aren’t hard for the right
person. You just weren’t willing.”
He stood there, frozen. And he never came after me again.