And Then, Crickets.

You said the thing.

Not the throwaway comment or the safe observation that slides past without friction. The thing. The insight you'd been carrying around for weeks, polishing in your head during commutes and shower thoughts. The point that felt urgent, necessary, true.

The room gave you nothing.

Not hostility—that would have been something. Not disagreement—at least that's engagement. Nothing. A few polite nods. The subtle weight shift that means someone's already moved on. The conversation that flows around your words like water around a stone.

· · ·

Drawing on information theory and thermodynamics, this book reframes communication failure as physics: no gradient, no transfer. If the room already believes what you're saying, you're not adding information. You're adding noise.

You're room temperature.

This isn't a book about speaking louder. It's a book about understanding why the room stays cold.