There is something magical in a whisper. In the way that words spoken barely audibly penetrate deeper than loud speeches. Since childhood, I knew: when someone speaks quietly, it is either a secret or care. That was the way it was in our house. We never shouted. Even when we quarreled, we argued quietly. That is why whispering for me is not about romance, but about home.

I remember how my grandmother called me to her to say: "don't forget about the jam, but not for everyone, just for you." Or how my mother leaned over the bed and said: "just ten more minutes." I still remember those "ten more minutes" because they had everything: morning, warmth, the feeling that you are loved just like that, not for grades, not for behavior.

And then I grew up. And I realized: there is another whisper. The one that sparks something else inside. When someone speaks into your ear — slightly leaning in, almost touching — and you don’t hear the words, but feel the voice. It’s like it’s enveloping. It’s not about meaning. It’s about closeness.

I like it when they whisper, even about stupid things. “You look like a kitten.” “You have such eyelashes.” Or simply: “I feel good.” Not because it’s a compliment. But because it’s between us. Just between.

There was a person with whom we spoke in a whisper even during the day. Simply because there was more to it than in ordinary words. Sometimes he would come up from behind, hug me and say something very simple: “you smell delicious.” I would smile. And I wouldn’t answer. Because words in response would be too loud. And not necessary.

Sometimes I miss this — when the voice becomes a touch. When even silence is a whisper inside. And you are not alone.