As I’ve got older, I’ve got better at saying ‘no’ to requests I don’t fancy, but I regularly fail. Usually, I feel the urge to give a socially acceptable reason – busyness, or a clash. But, without an excuse, sometimes I lie (which feels wrong), or I people-please and agree (which also feels bad… for me).

So, during a recent trip to Japan, I was intrigued to learn a new word for ‘no’. In Japanese, saying chotto is a way of declining without offence. According to the newsletter Japan or Die, chotto translates directly as ‘a little’, but its meaning is more subtle: ‘If someone asks you if you want to go to a party tomorrow and that’s not something you want to do … all you have to say is Ashita wa chotto (‘Tomorrow is a little…’) and the meaning is conveyed.’

Chotto is an example of a conversational tactic called an ‘implicature’. As the philosopher of language Nikhil Mahant explained in a recent Aeon essay, it allows us to ‘convey meaning without breaking social norms’.

All languages have implicatures, but it turns out that cultures disagree on how to use them. One 2011 study, for example, explored the contrasting refusal strategies of American and Japanese participants. The Americans were more likely to give a direct ‘no’, or cite alternative plans (‘I’m busy that weekend’), whereas Japanese speakers would use chotto, or postpone an answer (‘Right now, I don’t know my schedule’). Interestingly, Japanese participants found the American strategies rude; the Americans found the Japanese tactics frustrating.

The language of implied refusal, it seems, is delicate, and sometimes you might offend without realising. Has learning this made it easier for me to say no? Well, a little…

When I was an adolescent, time spent with my first girlfriend – a title very quickly rescinded – was as exhilarating as it was onerous. The cause of the former was straightforward, but that of the latter was specific to that juncture in my life: I felt that a beat of dead air was a solemn mark against me, and every moment must be filled with witty and memorable words. Before our meetings, I would tabulate, sometimes physically putting to paper, all the interesting, intriguing, titillating things I could mention. I treated hanging out like a state examination. You can imagine why she lunged at the first opportunity to become an ex.

But we remained – and remain – close friends, and some time after our ill-starred relationship ended, something indelible happened: we had our first real silence. Late in a balmy summer night, conversation extinguished itself and, for some reason, nothing else was said. I’ve had a lot of beautiful silences since then, but it remains the most poignant.

I was reminded of this experience by Emil Cioran, the brooding and sardonic Romanian French philosopher, who was actually capable of stringing together witty and memorable words. ‘True contact between beings,’ he wrote, ‘is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.’

Silences between people, of course, have all sorts of meanings, and Cioran is far from the only philosopher to write about silence. But here he incomparably evokes the strange intimacy that inheres in the best kinds of silence. Perhaps the next time you are fortunate enough to inhabit this kind of silence with someone important to you, you’ll think of ‘true contact’.