If Only Trees Could Talk

Chapter 17: Does The Echo Speak

(A lesson in how sometimes silence answers louder than voices.)

There's a path in the forest that's barely a path at all.
It weaves between twisted branches and fallen limbs like it's trying to hide itself.
You only find it because the wind tells you to turn.
And for once, you listen.

The deeper you walk, the quieter it gets.
Birds hush.
Leaves stop rustling.
Even your footsteps feel muffled, like the earth has grown too tired to echo them back.

But then—you hear it.

Not a sound.

A return.

You call out: "Hello?"
It bounces back: "Hello..."

Only softer.
Slower.
Like the forest is thinking before it answers.

You keep walking.

The silence here doesn't feel empty.
It feels... alive.
Like it's watching, waiting, holding something for you that you didn't know you lost.

Your thoughts start to rise louder than any voice could.
The kind of thoughts that only show up when you're finally alone.

Why did they leave?
Why didn't they ask if I was okay?
Why did I say sorry when I was the one hurt?
Was it me? Was I too much? Too little?

You whisper: "Was I hard to love?"
And the echo doesn't come back.

Just silence.

At first, it feels cruel.
Like being left on read by the universe.

But then the stillness shifts—like it's tilting its head.
You realize it's not avoiding the question.
It's showing you the answer.

Because not all things that matter have words.

You sit on a mossy rock, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the trees.

They're still here.
They don't talk much.
But they've seen everything.

The heartbreaks.
The almosts.
The way you fake-laughed at that party while wishing someone would look closer.
The way your hands shake when you try to explain your feelings and the words come out messy, misunderstood.

And yet—the trees haven't left.
They don't need you to explain yourself.
They already understand.

That's what an echo is, isn't it?

Not someone replying.
But someone receiving.

And maybe that's all you ever wanted.
Not answers.
Just for someone to sit in the silence with you long enough to understand your questions.

You look around.
Still no sound.
But suddenly, you don't feel ignored.

You feel heard.

Because silence can be love, too.

The pause before someone responds.
The quiet presence of a person who stays.
The unsent message that still carries meaning.
The "I'm here" that never needed to be said aloud.

You think of every time you didn't get closure.
Every conversation that ended with confusion instead of comfort.
Every friendship that slipped away without warning.
Every text you stared at for hours before deleting.

And in the hush of the forest, it finally clicks:

Not everything broken will explain itself.

Sometimes the echo doesn't come back because it's asking you to listen instead.

Not to others.

But to yourself.

The girl who's been waiting inside you, quietly, for someone to finally turn to her and say:

"I hear you."

So you whisper, not to the trees, not to the air—but to her:

"I hear you. I'm sorry I made you beg for silence. I'm sorry I only ever listened to the noise."

And for the first time, there's peace.

Not because everything is fixed.
But because something has landed.

You don't need them to respond.
You don't need the apology they never sent.
You don't need to explain yourself anymore.

You are not an unanswered question.
You are a voice that still echoes—even when no one replies.

You stand up.
And the wind, quiet all this time, finally stirs the leaves.

As if to say:

"Some truths don't need to be spoken. They just need to be felt."

"The loudest answers come in silence. The most honest echo is the one that never needed words."