Sound is air wiggling. Something vibrates, squishes the air next to it, and that squeeze travels to your ear as a wave you hear.
What's actually happening
Pluck a guitar string and it shoves the air beside it, squeezing molecules together. That compressed pocket shoves the next layer of air and springs back, leaving a slight emptiness behind; the next layer does the same, and a ripple of squeeze-and-stretch races outward at 343 metres per second. Crucially, no molecule makes the journey — each one just nudges its neighbour and returns, like a stadium crowd doing the wave. What travels is the pattern.
Everything you hear is encoded in two numbers of that pattern. How many squeezes arrive per second is frequency: your ear reads it as pitch, from the 27.5 Hz growl of a piano's lowest A to a child's-hearing limit near 20,000 Hz. How hard each squeeze presses is amplitude: that is loudness. The eardrum is a drumhead beaten by these arriving pressure pulses; three tiny bones lever the beats inward, and a spiral organ unpacks them by frequency before the brain reassembles music, speech, and the door you just heard creak.
Because sound needs neighbours to nudge, it has no way across a vacuum — space's explosions are genuinely silent, whatever cinema says. And its travel speed, brisk but a million times slower than light, leaks into everyday life: you see the lightning now and hear it later. Count the seconds and divide by three for kilometres. The thunder is the news arriving on foot.
- 1Press a ruler flat on a desk with 20 cm hanging off the edge, and twang the free end.
- 2Shorten the overhang and twang again: the buzz rises in pitch. A shorter free end vibrates faster — more squeezes per second.
- 3Now press your ear to the desk and twang. The wood delivers the sound louder and crisper than the air did: denser materials pass the nudge along far better.