Still between the lines

It was late. That soft hour when the world had quieted just enough to feel like a secret.
Shelly was on her balcony, knees drawn to her chest, notebook open beside her, mostly blank. She kept fidgeting with her pen. Words were elusive. It was too quiet. The day had been quiet. No messages from Ethan. He was quiet too. It drove her to overthink and overanalyse every message and every word she had said or sent in the last few days.
Her phone lit up with his name on the screen. It made her heart race.
She picked up with a trembling “hello” that came out more as a question than a greeting.


Ethan:
You’re quiet tonight.

Shelly:
You say that like it’s new.

Ethan:
It’s not. But I feel it more tonight. Like you’re holding something back again.

Shelly:
Maybe I am. Maybe I just don’t know how to talk to you anymore without unravelling a little.

Ethan:
That sounds familiar.
Maybe I don’t know how to speak without turning it into a confession.

Shelly:
You know I don’t need confessions from you. Just honesty.

Ethan:
Isn’t that the same thing?

Shelly:
Not when it comes from you.

Ethan:
I listened to that thing you sent. That poetry collection.
Didn’t see it coming.

Shelly:
It wasn’t meant to.

Ethan:
Yeah, well. It did.
Do you realise what your words do to people? To me?

Shelly:
I only ever wanted them to reach you.
Not all of you, just the part you hide.

Ethan:
You mean the part that wants to scream or disappear for a while?

Shelly:
No. The part that still believes someone might stay. Even after all of it.

Ethan:
There’s this moment I keep going back to. A message from you.
You just wrote: Still here.
That was it. No questions. No drama. Just… you.
No one’s ever done that for me without needing something in return.

Shelly:
You’ve always given more than you think.
You just hide it in silence.

Ethan:
You read me too well. I hate that. I love that.

Shelly:
I know.

Ethan:
If I asked you to stop writing about me, would you?

Shelly:
No.
But I’d write in a way only you would recognise.

Ethan:
You already do.

Shelly:
I know.

Ethan:
I almost booked a train last week.
Just to see if you’d actually open the door if I showed up unannounced.

Shelly:
I would have.
But I wouldn’t have said your name.

Ethan:
Why not?

Shelly:
I would have wanted you to say mine first.
You always had a way of saying my name.

Ethan:
Shelly.

Shelly:
Yes?

Ethan:
I miss the version of me that only exists when I talk to you.

Shelly:
He’s still there. Just tired.

Ethan:
He’s scared.

Shelly:
So am I.

Ethan:
Do you think it’s too late?

Shelly:
No.
But we keep pretending it is.
And maybe that’s the real tragedy.

Ethan:
Where are you?

Shelly:
On my way to bed.

He hears the soft rustle of her sheets as she lies down. He imagines her phone resting beside her cheek.

Ethan:
Stay awake for a moment?

Shelly:
Okay.

She nods, forgetting for a second that he can’t see it. Silence settles between them, light and comfortable. Then she hears it: the faintest notes of a piano. Not polished, not prepared. Just Ethan. Just now. And then he begins to sing. Low, imperfect, quiet. Like a secret. Like he’s tracing her name into the night without ever saying it. She smiles.

Shelly:
You’ll make me fall asleep.

Ethan:
That’s okay.
I like knowing you’re listening.

She doesn’t reply right away. Her body has already begun to soften into the warmth around her. She is between every chord he plays, just as much as he is between every line she writes.

Shelly:
Don’t stop.

Ethan:
I won’t.
Not tonight.

He keeps playing, voice barely more than breath, steady and warm. She doesn’t speak again. But she doesn’t hang up either. And when her breathing evens out, he stays on the line, singing only for her. Not to be heard, but to keep her close.