The Retreat

called it a study retreat.

That was technically accurate.

We rented a quiet space.

No noise.

No phones.

No chaos.

They invited themselves.

Of course they did.

“Sounds boring,” one boy said.

“It won’t be,” I replied.

He misunderstood.

The first hour was silent.

The second was uncomfortable.

The third was unbearable.

For them.

They whispered.

Fidgeted.

Searched for stimulation.

There was none.

By evening, they began creating drama.

Petty arguments.

Imagined slights.

Desperate noise.

The others ignored them.

Read.

Wrote.

Thought.

By morning, they left.

Exhausted.

Irritated.

Defeated.

Mira stretched. “That was peaceful.”

Lena nodded. “It always is.”

Silence isn’t empty.

It’s selective.