Oh yeah, the silent moments in fiction. The ones that make readers shudder, sigh, and giggle nervously while waiting for the next shoe to drop. We need to face it, silence isn’t nothingness; it’s a mix of unspoken conversations, awkward eye contact, and overthinking brains running wild. So, how do you write a moment where nobody’s saying anything, but it’s loud enough to Let’s dive in, shall we?
Imagine a knight and a princess sitting in a quiet little diner after the most action packed rescue mission ever. He’s still got dragon soot in his hair, and she’s silently judging his table manners. The room is noisy with clinking plates and coffee machines buzzing , but between them? Dead. Awkward . weird. Silence.
The knight taps his fingers on the table, periodically , like a radio that only knows one song. He’s staring at the chipped edge of his teacup like it holds the secrets to everything. His armor squeaks as he shuffles in his seat, clearly unused to human life or chairs without scales. The princess, meanwhile, has taken a great interest in her nails. She’s looking at them as if one of them might form into a hidden secret blade—because honestly, how else do you defend yourself against awkward small talk?
And then there’s the internal monologue. Oh, the sweet chaos of it. In the knight’s head.
Meanwhile, the princess is having her own mental spiral, Why is he so quiet? Is he planning his next rescue attempt? Does he think I need rescuing from this diner? Oh gods, what if he doesn’t even want to be here? Maybe he’s regretting saving me. I mean, he could have just let the dragon eat me, but no, he had to charge in like some overgrown can-opener. And now here we are, silently judging each other over overpriced tea.
Notice how neither of them is actually doing nothing. The silence is packed with gestures, fidgets, and observations. The princess plays with the tea packets, arranging them into a tiny tower that’s one touch away from falling . The knight’s eyes look around the room, landing on a squirrel outside the window. The squirrel stares back, looking slightly unimpressed, then hops away like it can’t handle the tension.
The silence stretches. The clock ticks louder. Somewhere in the background, a baby cries, and both of them flinch like they’ve been caught doing something illegal. The princess clears her throat, and the knight immediately sits up straighter, ready for… what? Battle? A conversation? A strict conversation?
But let’s zoom out for a moment. Writing silence isn’t just about filling the page with fidgety actions or nervous thoughts. It’s about layering the scene with context, like sprinkling salt on a desert—it brings out the depth of the moment. This quiet diner scene? It’s not just about awkwardness; it’s about what they’re not saying. Maybe the princess feels indebted to him, but she resents needing rescuing in the first place. Maybe the knight is wondering if he’s even cut out for this whole “hero” thing. The unspoken tension is what keeps readers hooked.
People can fall into a trap of thinking scenes like these are worthless. They very easily can be. But there is a balance to be found. No one wants to read two paragraphs of the heroine talking about how she couldn’t find a good parking spot at the grocery store and how the bananas were all green. But seemingly mundane things can tell you about a character, their relationship with others in the story, or tie to an overarching theme. For readers personally, that is a very fun thing to try to accomplish. Everything should move “the story” forward.
But the story is not just the plot. Inside the story is: Theme, Symbol, Characterization, Character arc/development, prose, message, and so on. These little quiet scenes should develop and move one or more of these forward. The way and thoughts a character may have while making coffee in the morning can move a part of a “story” forward, like the way the character is doing or how they live, even if it’s not moving the “plot” forward, if that makes sense.
Look around the room. The diner isn’t a vacuum. A couple nearby is having a whispered argument, their heads leaning close like the audience. The waiter wipes down the counter with methodical, almost meditative precision. Outside, a biker zips by, narrowly avoiding an old man with a gasp of surprise. All these tiny details make the silence between the knight and princess feel alive, like the world is moving even if they’re stuck in place.
Now, let’s go deeper into the sensory details. The knight’s armor smells subtly of leather and dragon breath. The princess’s perfume is floral, with a sharp vanilla note that cuts through the diner’s mix of coffee and food. The chair creaks under the knight’s weight every time he shifts, a constant reminder that he doesn’t quite fit into this cozy, civilian setting. The princess’s teacup is warm against her palms, a small comfort as her mind races in circles.
Eventually, someone’s got to break the silence. Maybe the knight spills his tea in a gesture of clumsiness, or the princess bursts out laughing at the humour of it all. Maybe the squirrel comes back and startles them both into a shared moment of horror . Whatever happens, the quiet moment has done its job: it deepened their relationship, showed us who they are, and maybe even hinted at where the story’s going forward.
And don’t underestimate the power of silence to reflect the aftermath of action-packed scenes. Picture that same knight and princess after battling a dragon together. They’ve just escaped with their lives, adrenaline coursing through their veins. The silence now? It’s heavy with relief, exhaustion, and unspoken gratitude. The knight might play with the tip of his sword, checking for nicks. The princess might stare at her hands, dirtied and trembling. Their thoughts would swirl—memories of fire and claws, the sound of their own screams, the realization that they survived when they shouldn’t have. Even in silence, their minds would be loud.
So, when you write your next silent scene, don’t think of it as a pause. Think of it as a pressure cooker. What’s simmering beneath the surface? What’s distracting your characters, both externally and internally? Silence isn’t the absence of action; it’s the space where all the juicy, unspoken drama lives. And if you’ve done your job right, your readers won’t just see the silence—they’ll picture it.
