In my college literature class, Lydia sat in the front row every day. Her posture was straight, her notebook always open, and her handwriting neat and deliberate. She never whispered, fidgeted, or joined the casual conversations around her. While everyone else checked their phones and waited for class to end, Lydia listened carefully. We assumed she was painfully shy. Some students even called her strange. I barely noticed her until one gray Thursday morning when Mr. Anderson was discussing The Great Gatsby. Frustrated by our silence, he suddenly turned toward Lydia.

“You’ve been here every class,” he said. “Don’t just sit there like a statue. Did no one ever teach you how to speak?” Lydia slowly closed her notebook and stood. She walked to the board, picked up a marker, and faced us. Nobody understood what she was doing. Then she began writing in large letters: “I lost my voice in an accident two years ago.”