" Beware of  what you say! Mind your words. Cause you never know when it could do some  serious damages. "

When I met forrest Sterling, he seemed like any other  guy who has his fair share of demons and adventures. Not that I don't have any. But something about him has felt so strongly connective... I don't know whether there is any word like it or not?...

But the main point is he seemed like a very important person and I wish I knew he really was going to be an important person then I would have slapped myself very hard for even falling for his charms.

But not all bombs or explosives comes with a warning sign right?
Wish it came with one, then it could have been way better than this wreckage of emotions I'm having. After all something is better than nothing right?

"Ripple of Her Silence"

© Copyright [2025] Adhuni. All Rights Reserved.

🚫Warning 🚫

This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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The moral right of the author, Adhuni, has been asserted.

A Note to My Readers

Hello everyone, and thank you for taking the time to read my story. I'm so excited to share this world and these characters with you.
As a writer, I'm always striving to improve. You may find some grammatical errors or typos throughout the chapters. Please know that you are free to point them out in the comments. Your feedback helps me make the story better for everyone, and I would be so grateful for your help.
Thank you for your support and happy reading!

And don't forget to vote and comment if you like the story...  :)

Being a subject to utter humiliation all my life, one might think why I haven't been used to it by now.

Well, let me tell you one thing: when you are used to something, it doesn't guarantee that you might not be shocked by it the next time it happens.

Some might say that they still prefer to be prepared than being suddenly hit by such incidents.

But the point is, you can prepare only when you know that there is going to be a storm.

In my case, I was blindsided, or rather, I should say, I might have missed the warning signs in my stupidity.

Forrest and I met on an uneventful day. He is a park ranger by profession, and while he was on duty in the central park, he found a wounded fox cub. He rescued it and rushed it to our forest animal rehabilitation center.

On that day, Natalia was on standby and was doing all the paperwork and check-up of that little wounded baby fox.

Although I was present that day, attending to another patient-a hawk that had somehow injured its wings and now couldn't fly-I generally care for mammals, and their re-wilding is my specialty.

But that day, our bird rehabilitator was not present, so I filled in for him and tried to provide basic care to the hawk.

As I did the first aid and was out to check on other patients, I ran into him and wanted to ask about the reason behind his presence.

But due to my nature and fear of being around people, I did what any smart and self-aware introvert would do-I just stayed mum, staring at him like he was an outcast, and his sole existence in this center was a question that needed to be answered first.

You can't blame me for it, as we don't encounter many humans here every day, unlike animals.

Generally, park rangers just leave them in our care after rescuing them and doing the paperwork. Some of them occasionally visit to check on them, but most don't bother themselves to do this.

But Forrest was something else. Not only was he patiently waiting for any news of the fox cub, but he was also noting down the needs of other animals in our rehabilitation center.

How did I figure this out? Well, he was asking the person at the reception-a mid-50s woman named Fiona.

She is not a chatty person at all, not that any of my colleagues are talkative either, at least not with me. Which makes working here easy and comfortable, as everybody minds their own business. But surely they have those moments, where they show their overly sweet but venomous traits.

As I was retreating back to my own table to avoid being called out as a creepy lady, I accidentally knocked out a paperweight on the table near me, and the sound produced caused everyone around to look at me.

That was when his eyes met mine.
The moment our eyes locked, I think

I felt quite enamored by his heterochromic eyes-two different yet vibrant shades of irises hooked me, keeping me looking at his eyes.

His left iris is green, and the right one is gray. One thing I can still say is that his eyes were the only reason I ever felt intrigued by him, not due to their color but due to how expressive yet stoic they were.

Our staring competition would have continued for a long time if Natalia hadn't called out to him to catch his attention.

That sudden voice caused both of us to quit our predicament and focus on her.

"Mr.?" Natalia asked, wanting to know his name so she could address him.

"Sterling!" he replied.

"Oh... So I want to inform you that the fox cub you've taken here is now okay, but he needs to be put under our observation due to his injuries.

He is required to stay with us for more than three months, as he had badly injured his legs and tail. So, we will keep a watch on him and take care of him from here and will free him to the wild after Ms. Hayes here helps him with re-wilding.

Now, if you have any questions, you can ask me." She ended her diagnosis after pointing at me.

You might ask why this backstory is relevant, but even though this encounter wasn't something worth mentioning, the person Forrest is worth more than being mentioned, and I would have never guessed how important he would be to me in the future.

​From that day onwards, I saw Forrest every other day as he started visiting the center. At first, I thought that was very kind of him to visit and check up on the health of the fox cub.

​But I was a bit skeptical too. See, people who do care about animals come to our shelter and visit them often, but not every day. They do show up when their schedule permits, but Forrest made it his duty, as if we were to hurt that little guy. It didn't make any sense.

​See... he's a park ranger and had his patrolling and other responsibilities too, right? Then how did he manage to visit the center every day?
​Not only me, but my colleagues were also curious about why this handsome guy was showing up every day at the center.

He soon became the hot topic everyone talked about over breaks and after-shift gossip sessions.

And as always, I was the silent spectator of it. I don't really like to indulge in gossip, not that anyone invites me to gossip with them.

​It's the tics that make them annoyed with me. At first, they were really nice—all helpful and kind. But as you start to know people more, over time you understand that they are not always the way they showed at the very first meeting.

​Dude... I wish I remembered it till now. Then this wouldn't have happened at all. Another lesson added to my "need-to-learn" lesson list. At this rate, the list is never going to end, as new lessons keep piling up over another.

​I make so many mistakes that sometimes I wonder whether I should change my name to "Infinity Lessons Learned." 'Cause the way I'm learning lessons, this name seems to be more fitting than my original name.

​Well, now back to the topic. As one month passed with Forrest's regular visits, the ladies of the facility became too flirty and obvious about their intentions to woo this near six-foot-tall guy and bind him to themselves. But he, just like some hero from a suspense movie, dodged them with impolite stares and rejections to their invites.

​His consistency was the only thing anyone could rely on. He would arrive exactly at 11:30 AM, spend ten minutes by the cub's enclosure—checking the temperature gauge, noting the vitals sheet, and maybe whispering a few words to the little guy—and then he would leave. No coffee, no small talk with anyone , just the fox.

​But one day, the routine broke.

​It was a Tuesday, and I was cleaning the main aviary after a messy feeding session.​Natalia and Fiona were at the reception, huddled together, trying to figure out which brand of expensive coffee they preferred and which one was better.

​Forrest arrived at his usual time, but instead of walking straight to the back, he paused.

​He was holding a brown paper bag, not the sleek, organized files he usually carried. He walked past the giggling women, who held their breaths, waiting for him to finally acknowledge their collective existence. He didn't. He walked right to the small table nearest the aviary, the one I always retreated to, and set the bag down.

​He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the wall chart detailing medication schedules. But as he turned to leave, his long fingers pushed the bag a bit closer to my workspace, as if telling me to accept it.

​He gave the slightest, almost imperceptible eye-twitch tic and a barely visible but small smile, the one I now recognized from our staring match, and then he was gone.

​I walked over, heart hammering in my chest—a ridiculous reaction to a paper bag. Inside, nestled beneath a simple, clean napkin, was a fresh croissant and a small thermos of black coffee.

It was a silent invitation, a gift delivered not with a romantic flourish, but with the same stoic, calculated delivery he gave his reports.

He hadn't asked if I wanted it; he just knew I was the only person who drank black coffee and the only person he could give it to without having to say a single word.

​But I didn't understand when he had noticed it. 'Cause we never had any interactions with each other, not at least any direct ones.

But that day after he left the brown bag on the table. ​I stood there, staring at the brown paper bag and the silver thermos, my heart doing that frantic little drum solo it always reserves for unexpected human interactions. A ridiculous reaction to a croissant and coffee, yet here I was, paralyzed.

​It wasn't the gift itself; it was the silent knowledge behind it. He hadn't asked if I drank black coffee. He hadn't asked if I even liked croissants. He just knew.

​How did he know? We never had any direct interactions. I never spoke to him, and he never spoke to me. The only time I even saw him was when he was either focused on the fox or standing across the room, watching the wall chart.

​It was like he had been running a silent observation on me, the same way I obsessively monitored the hydration levels of a dehydrated chipmunk.

He’d observed my rhythms, the 11:30 arrival, the black coffee I bought from the vending machine (the one that always tasted like burnt plastic), and the fact that I always retreated to this specific, quiet table near the aviary.

​The thought made my skin prickle, but not just with anxiety. It was... curiosity. A forbidden, dangerous curiosity.

​My colleagues, of course, noticed the bag. Natalia stopped her coffee gossip mid-sentence. Fiona squinted from behind the counter. The attention was a hot, uncomfortable spotlight.

I knew what they were thinking: The handsome ranger finally noticed one of us, and of course, it was the weird, silent girl.

​I quickly snatched the bag and the thermos, tucking them under my table like stolen goods.

​That day, the coffee was smooth, hot, and perfect. The croissant was buttery and flaked perfectly. It was the best break I'd had in months, and it was tainted with the unsettling feeling of being studied.
​His actions remain a mystery to this day. Because of this heartwarming gesture, I too started to notice him, which seems like a ploy to me now.

​I started watching him back. Not just his routine, but his details. I watched his heterochromic eyes—the green and the gray—as they scanned the room. I watched the stoic mask he wore when the fluorescent lights flickered.

He was a stone statue of efficiency. There was no crack, no subtle tremor. He was perfect.
​And that was the most unnerving thing of all.

​He was coming back to a place where his every move was calculated and observed, and he was doing it to get to me, the girl who couldn't even speak to thank him.

​I successfully tucked the evidence—the warm thermos and the buttery croissant—beneath the table, but I couldn't hide the residual flush on my face. The spotlight was still on me, though Forrest himself was long gone.

I tried to focus on wiping down the aviary floor, but the silence from the reception desk was louder than my usual internal noise.

​Finally, Natalia cleared her throat. She didn't approach; she didn't have to.

​"So, Ms. Hayes," Natalia said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, "It looks like our mystery ranger decided to make a delivery. Very... thoughtful."

​Fiona didn't grunt this time. She leaned closer to Natalia, her eyes wide with undisguised curiosity, and took a loud sip from her oversized porcelain mug, which I knew was filled with her current favorite herbal tea.

Fiona lived for a good story, and this was finally giving her something to talk about.

​I kept my back to them, scrubbing the same spot with unnecessary force. I desperately searched for a word—any word—that my mouth would let me use. Thank you? It's just coffee? He's nice? Nothing came.

My throat was seized tight, the usual panic freezing the option to speak.
​My inability to respond only fueled the conversation. A sudden, sharp sniffing tic escaped me—an involuntary sound that felt too loud in the tense silence.

​"Oh, dear," Natalia sighed dramatically. "Still having those little issues, are we? Maybe he brought a remedy for your cold, Sylvie."

​Fiona, however, cut across Natalia's barbed comment, her voice simply eager. "Oh, don't be like that, Nat! Maybe he saw her drinking that awful machine sludge! Forrest is a man who knows his coffee, I bet.

Sylvie, honey, what kind of pastry was it? Was it an almond one? Tell us! Did he say anything? Anything at all?"

​Her questions weren't mean; they were starved for detail. Fiona wasn't interested in making me feel bad; she was interested in the story of the handsome ranger and the silent girl.
​I risked a glance at them. Natalia's eyes were narrowed with a competitive, jealous glint. Fiona's eyes, however, were shining with pure, innocent gossip.

​I just shook my head once, sharply—a gesture I regretted immediately.
​"Well, isn't that just perfect?" Natalia huffed, crossing her arms. "The quiet one gets the prize."

​Fiona just sighed happily. "He's mysterious, Natalia. She's mysterious. It makes for a much better story! But really, Sylvie, if he does it again, you have to tell us. We can't let a mystery go unsolved. Now, if only I could figure out what kind of tea he drinks..."

​I didn't wait for them to continue. I abandoned the cleaning bucket, grabbed the thermos and bag, and retreated immediately to the isolation of the mammal wing. The croissant, once a gesture of warmth, was now tied up with the discomfort of being gossip fodder, but at least the judgment was now mostly contained to Natalia's pointed barbs. Fiona just wanted the tea.

The next day, my routine was broken. I couldn't just accept the gift and remain silent. The idea of him thinking I was rude, or worse, entitled, made my anxiety worse than any confrontation with Natalia.

​I had to acknowledge him, but speech was out of the question, especially now that the center felt like a pressure cooker.

​I devised a plan. It was clumsy, it was foolish, but it was the best I could manage.

​Before my shift, I baked. I made a batch of double-chocolate cookies—a comfort food that was easy to make and, crucially, easy to leave behind. I sealed two of them in a small, clear cellophane bag.

​When Forrest arrived at his usual 11:30 AM, I made sure I was nowhere near the front. I was in the operating room, pretending to count bandages, watching through the small, high window that overlooked the reception area.

​He walked in, exchanged a curt nod with Fiona, and headed straight to the fox cub's enclosure. He did his ten-minute ritual—vitals, observation, quiet words—his perfect, handsome profile turned away from the rest of the world.
​As he finished, instead of walking out the door, he stopped by my usual table again.

He didn't look at me, but I felt his awareness of my presence across the room. He was waiting.

​Taking a shaky breath, I gripped the cookie bag and walked out of the operating room. I kept my eyes on the floor, my shoulders hunched, and approached the table.

​He was standing there, his back to me, looking at the same medication chart he always did. I didn't dare get close enough to speak or even touch his arm.

​I simply put the cellophane bag of cookies on the table, exactly where he had placed the croissant, and immediately spun on my heel. I retreated to the nearest cleaning closet—not even a safe space, just a dark corner—before he could turn around.

​I waited, heart pounding, listening through the thin door. I didn't hear a thank you. I didn't hear a question.

​I heard the sound of a single chair scraping against the floor and the heavy, measured rhythm of his footsteps walking away.

A few seconds later, I heard the outer door swish open and then shut.
​When I finally crept out of the closet, the cookies were gone.