The Café Was Loud And I Lost your Words

 The Café Was Loud And I Lost Your Words

It started with rain.

A soft drizzle brushing our jackets as we walked down the street, the sky grey and gentle above us. My friend and I had planned this catch-up for days, a small escape from routine, a moment to share coffee and conversation.

We stepped into a busy street café, the kind full of charm and chaos. Metal chairs scraped the floor, people chatted over clinking plates, a coffee machine hissed in the background, and somewhere, a distant TV murmured beneath it all. We found a seat near the edge, under a tin roof where the rain tapped a steady beat.


 

I already knew this wouldn’t be easy.

We placed our orders. My friend smiled, leaned forward, and began talking. Their eyes lit up, hands animated. I focused on their lips, on the rhythm of their voice filtered through my cochlear implant but it was all jumbled. Too many layers of sound crashing into each other. The city, the café, the rain, the machines, all louder than the voice I was trying so hard to catch.

I leaned in. “Sorry… can you say that again?”

They repeated it, gently.

Still nothing. Just a blur of sound and moving lips I couldn’t decode.

I asked again, softer this time.

Their smile faltered slightly. They tried again, and I tried harder. But the noise around us refused to let their words reach me.

Eventually, we stopped trying. The conversation dissolved, unfinished.

We sat there in silence together, but apart. I looked at them. They looked away. I stirred my coffee, suddenly aware of how loud the quiet between us had become.

It wasn’t their fault. Or mine. It was just… life with hearing loss. This happens more often than I care to admit.

Still, they stayed. We didn’t talk much after that. But the presence remained, warm and real beneath the drizzle and noise.

"your voice was drowned in clinking noise,
The world too loud for softer joys.
Yet in the Silence, side by side,
I heard the love you couldn't hide."
                                         -Kalaimathy S L

End Note

There are moments when the world becomes too loud for me to hear even the person sitting right across the table. Not because I don’t want to listen, but because my ears can only do so much.

This story isn’t about frustration, it’s about the quiet realities of being deaf in a world that never lowers its volume. It’s about the conversations that slip away, the effort that often goes unseen, and the love that lingers, even when the words don’t.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Couldn’t Explain Then, But I Understand Now: What My Parents Didn’t Know About My Life as a CI User

Image
I Couldn’t Explain Then, But I Understand Now: What My Parents Didn’t Know About My Life as a CI User As a cochlear implant user who grew up navigating an often misunderstood world of sound, I wrote this to help parents and others see the parts we often can’t explain as children. When I was a little girl, I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. I didn't have the words then. I couldn’t explain why I kept saying “huh?” or “I didn’t hear you.” I couldn’t explain why I looked blank, why I didn’t respond, or why I got tired so easily in noisy places. My parents, concerned, suddenly took me to an audiologist to check if there were any problems. I could hear, but I didn't know how to explain my struggles and the barriers I faced, because I didn't know what natural hearing was like. But as I grew up, through countless conversations with friends and dedicated research into the science behind my experiences, I finally began to understand. And I wish my parents knew these things earlie...
Read more

I Act Like I Hear You: The Hidden Toll of Trying

Image
 I Act Like I Hear You: The Hidden Toll of Trying Sometimes, I nod when I didn’t really understand. I laugh when others laugh, even if I didn’t catch the joke. I rehearse responses in my head because I’m not sure if I really heard you right. I act like I’m hearing more than I am. This isn’t lying. It’s survival . In psychology, it’s called auditory-verbal masking or effortful socialization-  a term used to describe what many deaf and hard-of-hearing people do to fit into the hearing world, especially those of us with cochlear implants or hearing aids. It means mimicking behaviors of hearing individuals responding quickly, maintaining eye contact, laughing at the right times even when you’re exhausted, even when you’re lost. We do it to pass. To avoid being left out. To not be the “inconvenient” one in the group. But there’s a cost. 💢 The Psychology Behind the Mask In social and cognitive psychology, this behavior mirrors autistic masking and code-switching in margina...
Read more

When Listening Drains Me: The Side of Deafness No One Sees

Image
 When Listening Drains Me: The Side of Deafness No One Sees People often assume listening is easy. That if you have ears or even a cochlear implant you can just hear, respond, and move on. But for me, listening is work. It takes energy, focus, and emotional strength especially in noisy or social situations. In group conversations , it’s the hardest. If I miss a word, I turn to someone next to me for help. But even that feels risky. They may think I’m disturbing them, interrupting, or not paying attention. But the truth is I’m trying harder than anyone realizes. And when I can’t keep up, it hits me like a storm. A flood of frustration, helplessness, sadness… sometimes all at once. My brain feels like it’s on overload , and I lose control over how I feel. The world becomes too loud outside , and too heavy inside. What I’ve come to realize is this isn’t just personal. It’s actually something psychologists call listening fatigue . People who use hearing aids or cochlear implants have...
Read more