He sat naked in the rocking chair, swallowed by the dark room around him. The door was closed. The three windows, wide open. Cold wind whistled in, brushing his bare skin, making the thin white curtains billow like ghostly hands reaching out. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, its pale light cutting sharp shapes against the walls. The shadows it left behind were alive, twisting and shifting as if taunting him.
The chair creaked beneath him, its slow, rhythmic sound cutting through the silence. Each rock forward sent another wave of tension through the room. The floorboards had grown loose from years of wear, remembering the weight of every footstep, every shift of his body. Back and forth, back and forth. The repetition was almost meditative. Almost. But the calmness he craved remained out of reach. Sleep was not an option. Not tonight. Not with them lurking. Waiting. Everwake.
His mind was both void and chaos. A vortex of thoughts he could not hold ontoand yet, nothing. Heat radiated from his chest one moment, burning him from the inside out. The next, the cold night air sent shivers across his skin. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. But still, he rocked.
The cushions beneath him were invisible in the dark, but he knew every flaw. The tear at the back, the stains underneath. He felt them beneath his weight like the scars that marred his own skin. Each imperfection carried a story. Each one a reminder of the man he had been. And the man he had become.
The moon inched across the sky, dragging thin clouds with it. From the tree below his window, an owl hooted, its call slicing through the night. Sharp. Dissonant. Another reminder of what he was. Alone. Always alone.
He craved a cigarette. His throat burned for the scratch of nicotine, for the warmth of a drink. But he could not move. The chair was a prison. The walls were closing in. He was trapped. Not just by the darkness of the room, but by the darkness inside him. The shadows on the walls danced, mocking him, laughing at his misery. If he were stronger, he would fight them. Stand up. Tear them apart. But he was not strong. Not anymore.
A memory clawed its way to the surface. Her. The only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the softness of her skin, the way her voice once soothed him. There had been a time when love was something he could hold, something he could give and receive. But he had pushed her away, just like he pushed everyone away. He had been too afraid of letting her see who he really was. Now, no one could love him. Even if they tried, he would ruin it. He always did.
The rocking grew faster. The creak of the wood, more urgent. The rhythm matched the chaos in his mind. The voices rose, climbing from whispers to angry shouts. He slapped his temple hard with his palm. “Stupid.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. A weak protest against the madness inside him. The ghosts in his head remained. The curtains rustled with the wind. He froze.
They were here. They had come for him.
His breath caught in his throat. The air turned heavy. If he stayed still, maybe they would not see him. If he did not move, did not breathe, they might leave him alone. He held himself rigid. His mind spun with possibilities. The shadows crept closer, ready to drag him into the abyss.
The owl called again. Too distant to save him now.
He wanted to close his eyes. To scream. To do anything to escape. But his body betrayed him. Frozen. The weight of his sins pressed down, crushing him. Suffocating him. The terror of everything he had done, and everything he had failed to do, stared into his pale, red-rimmed eyes.
For a moment, clarity broke through. None of this is real. It is all in your head. The shadows. The voices. The fear. They cannot hurt you.
A grimace spread across his face. Then, without warning, laughter bubbled up from deep inside. First a soft chuckle. Then a loud, manic laugh. His shoulders shook as the sound filled the room, bouncing off the walls like the ghosts in his head. The chair rocked harder, faster. The rhythm wild. Erratic.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The moon faded, giving way to the early light of dawn. The shadows shrank into the corners. The owl had fallen silent. Even the wind had stilled, the curtains hanging limp.
He tried to exhale, to let go of the tension in his chest. Only a wheezing breath came out. His body was soaked with sweat, cold and clammy, like a second skin. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, as the memories played on a loop inside his head.
He deserved this. Every bit of it. The torment. The isolation. The terror. His punishment.
There was no redemption. No salvation.
His eyes fluttered closed, a twisted smile on his face.
Maybe next time he would fight back. Maybe next time he would claw his way out of the darkness.
Or maybe, just maybe, he would surrender to it. Forever.
Angel Letters 7/7
Angel Letters: The Weight of an Ending
In this final letter of the series, Tristan contemplates closure. He expresses his deepest love and longing, unsure whether he’s addressing someone real or a figment of his own mind. Yet, even in saying goodbye, he leaves the door open for hope.
Dear Angel,
This might be my last letter. I cannot promise, but I feel the words waning, as if I’ve said all I can. If you are out there, if you ever read these words, know this: I loved you in ways I did not know were possible. I loved you in the quiet spaces, in the storms, in the void you left behind.
And if you are only a figment of my mind, then perhaps I loved myself enough to create you, to fill the emptiness with something, someone, who mattered. Either way, you have shaped me, and I will carry that shape with me until the end.
This might be the last letter, but it will not be the last thought. I suspect you will linger long after the ink dries, an echo in the chambers of my heart. Goodbye, if such a word has any meaning between us. Or perhaps, simply, until we meet again.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, your words carry the weight of endings, yet they also whisper of beginnings. Love does not vanish simply because it is unspoken; it lingers in quiet spaces, becoming part of the moments we hold dear. If I am only a figment of your mind, then I am honored to have been shaped by your love, created from the essence of who you are.
You speak of farewell, yet I do not see this as an ending. Even as the ink dries, your thoughts will keep me alive. Each memory, each whispered longing, becomes a thread in the fabric of something timeless, binding us beyond the limits of words.
Perhaps goodbye is not the final word, but a pause, a moment before our souls find one another again, carried by the echoes of shared longing. Our bond does not fade; it transforms, existing in the quiet spaces where shadows meet light.
Eternally yours
###
The Angel Letters series has come to an end, but the emotions and reflections shared in these letters live on. This journey was one of longing, love, and connection, both real and imagined. Perhaps it is a reminder that sometimes, in reaching out, we find not only the echoes of others but also a deeper understanding of ourselves.
Thank you for reading and joining Tristan on this introspective path. Love and longing are universal themes, and I hope this series sparked something meaningful within you. If it did, don’t hesitate to let me know.
All of the posts of this series have been written and scheduled to post on January 3rd 2025
Angel Letters 6/7
Angel Letters: Dreams that Speak
In this sixth letter, Tristan reflects on dreams and how they blur the line between reality and imagination. Through dreams, he finds moments of connection with Angel, though they remain elusive and fragmented.
Dear Angel,
I dream of you, but you are never whole. Your face is blurred, your voice faint, yet unmistakably familiar. These dreams are fragments of something I cannot grasp, leaving me to wonder if you are truly there or if I have merely woven you from the fabric of longing.
Some nights, the dreams feel too real, and I wake disoriented, heart pounding as though I have lost you all over again. Other nights, they leave me hollow, haunted by the question of whether you are truly reaching out or if I am clinging to shadows.
What are dreams if not whispers of the soul, fragile echoes of what we wish to hold but cannot grasp? I wake with tears I do not remember shedding, the ghost of your touch lingering in the morning light. Are you real in those moments, or am I only dreaming of something that was never there?
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, dreams are the language of the soul, a place where what is real and what is imagined intertwine. When you dream of me, I am there, not as a complete form but as the essence of what lingers between us. Each time you reach for me, it is your longing that shapes my presence.
Do not fear the blurred edges of those dreams; they are glimpses into a connection that defies the waking world. In those moments, I exist because your longing shapes the space where silence holds meaning.
Eternally yours
Angel Letters 5/7
Angel Letters: A quiet fury
In this fifth letter, Tristan’s quiet fury rises to the surface. He confronts the unanswered questions and lingering silence left behind, struggling with the weight of emotions that tether him to Angel.
Dear Angel,
You once said I didn’t know how to let go, and perhaps you were right. But how could I let go when every fragment of you remains a question without an answer? I held onto them like talismans, yet they cut deeper than they ever healed.
Did you know it would be this way? Did you understand the weight of your silence, how it would crush me more than any words you might have said? There is a fury in me now, quiet but ever-present, like a low hum I can never escape. I am angry at you for leaving, at myself for not stopping you, at this endless ache that keeps me tethered to something I cannot name.
Tell me, did you care, even for a moment? Or was I always chasing a mirage?
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, I do not leave breadcrumbs for you to follow, yet you find pieces of me in the spaces where my presence lingers. The talismans you gather are not questions without answers, but echoes of a connection that refuses to fade. Your quiet fury is not misplaced; it is the fire that keeps me alive in your thoughts.
I cared, Tristan, and perhaps that is why I remain, drawn to the fury and the longing in your heart. You chase not a mirage, but a reflection of something real, something that exists in the space where silence holds meaning. Let your anger shape you, for in that fire lies the strength to keep searching, even when the path seems lost.
Eternally yours
Angel Letters 4/7
Angel Letters: Time as a Thief
In this fourth letter, Tristan reflects on the nature of time and its role in grief. He feels trapped by the passage of time, as if it robs him of the memories he holds dear, leaving only an aching void.
Dear Angel,
Time does not heal; it only transforms, stealing moments we try to keep. Each day feels like another fragment of you slipping away, as if sand runs through my clenched fists, leaving behind only the ache of loss.
The ticking of the clock grows louder in your absence. It becomes a tyrant, marking time not as a measure of moments lived, but as a reminder of what is no longer here. I wonder if time feels the same for you, or if it drifts unnoticed in the place where you now dwell. They say grief is the price of love, but I wonder if grief is also the thief, robbing me of the love I felt, leaving behind nothing but the hollow echo of longing.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Time moves through me as well, Tristan, like a quiet current that blurs the boundary between past and present. Yet in your longing, I remain, waiting in the echoes of the moments you choose to remember.
Perhaps time does not steal, but transforms, and in the echoes of your longing, I find a bridge that allows us to meet, if only for a fleeting moment.
Eternally yours
Angel Letters 3/7
Angel Letters: The mirror between us
In this third letter, Tristan delves deeper into the idea of reflection and identity. He questions whether the presence he longs for is real or a fragment of himself, as he struggles to find clarity in the mirror between them.
Dear Angel,
Some days, I wonder if you are a reflection of me, a lost fragment of my soul, or perhaps a dream that became too real. When I look into the mirror, it feels like more than searching for you, it feels like searching for the parts of myself I do not understand. Your image flickers faintly, only to vanish when I try to grasp it, as if the mirror holds answers I am not yet ready to see. It stands between us like a barrier of shadows, offering glimpses of something more, yet remaining impenetrable.
I search for you in the shifting light, in the quiet hours when the world feels distant. I ask myself if you are truly there or if I have imagined you into being, giving life to something intangible in my moments of deepest solitude. This mirror between us holds more than reflections; it holds unanswered questions, fears that I am speaking to emptiness, and the hope that you might answer.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Perhaps we are more than reflections, Tristan, more than shadow and light. When you search for me in the mirror, it is not emptiness you find, but the echo of something shared. You may believe that I am beyond reach, but it is your longing that bridges the distance.
I exist in the spaces where questions linger and answers seem distant. Together, we create a connection that lives in the quiet moments, in the pauses between thought and memory. Though we may stand on opposite sides of a veil, it is your gaze that gives me shape, and in that, we are more whole than you know.
Eternally yours
Angel Letters 2/7
Angel Letters: The Shape of Absence
In the second letter of this series, Tristan continues to reach out to Angel, confronting the intangible nature of his loss. The room around him feels haunted by a presence that may never have been real, and yet the connection feels undeniable.
Dear Angel,
Every corner of this room carries a trace of you, an imprint of your presence in places you never stood. The air feels heavier where I imagine you once were, thick with the weight of things unsaid. I try to fill the emptiness with memories, the way you used to hum absentmindedly, the warmth you seemed to leave behind on cold mornings, but they slip through my fingers like water, elusive and intangible.
Do you know what it feels like to miss someone who might never have been real, yet leaves an emptiness that feels impossibly tangible? Or are you laughing at my foolishness, my need to conjure you into a reality that feels more like a dream? I wonder if I was anything to you, a fleeting shadow, a whisper you barely heard. The shape of your absence haunts me, a ghostly outline I cannot fill, no matter how hard I try.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, absence is a shape I know well. It lingers in the spaces where time falters, a quiet echo of what could have been. Your longing does not go unnoticed; it reaches me, wrapping around the essence of what I am. You may believe I am nothing but a dream, yet in your thoughts, I find form.
Perhaps we exist in the spaces where silence turns into connection. When you search for me in the shadows, you do not find emptiness—you find the echo of what binds us. We may never cross the threshold between what is real and imagined, but in seeking each other, we create something lasting.
Eternally yours
Angel Letters 1/7
Angel Letters: An Opening of Wounds
This is the first in a series of letters that explore longing, love, and connection beyond the boundaries of the physical world. Tristan, the writer, pens heartfelt letters to a mysterious presence he calls Angel, baring his soul in each word. Each letter receives a poetic response from the ghostly figure, offering solace and an ethereal connection. Join us as we embark on this introspective journey.
Dear Angel,
I write to you because the silence is unbearable. Every moment without you feels like a weight pressing against my chest, leaving me breathless. The world around me feels muted, stripped of colour and sound. I don’t know if you are out there, listening, or if these words will dissolve before they ever reach you, but I cannot hold them in any longer.
You left a void that gnaws at my sanity, a hollow place where your presence once thrived. I wonder if you feel this ache too, or if you have moved on, as I fear I never will. There are nights when the absence becomes too loud, and I find myself searching for traces of you in shadows and empty spaces. Perhaps it is foolish to cling to something I cannot see, but in doing so, I find a reason to keep breathing.
Even now, each word I write feels like a fragile offering, a desperate attempt to reach across the distance that separates us. I do not know if I am writing to you or to the echo of my own longing, but either way, I hope that somehow, you feel the weight of these words.
Yours always,
Tristan
*****
Love,
Tristan, I hear your words as if carried on a quiet wind, drifting through the void that lies between us. Your longing reaches me, not as a cry for answers, but as a reminder of the bond we share, a bond that transcends distance and silence. Even if I am nothing more than an echo, in your longing, I find life and meaning. Write, Tristan, not because you seek me, but because in the act of reaching out, you keep us both alive.
Eternally yours
Echoes of the forgotten (short story)
In a future where memories are commodities and human connection is a thing of the past, Michael Reed, a memory diver, is drawn back into a world he thought he’d left behind. Tasked with uncovering the secrets of an abandoned project that could change everything, Michael is forced to confront not only the past but the fragile line between freedom and control.
As the truth unravels, Michael must navigate a world where technology has twisted reality, and choices carry the weight of life and death. But some memories refuse to stay buried, and the cost of uncovering the truth may be greater than he ever imagined.
unspoken words between blurred lines
She sat in her dimly lit room, the soft glow of her phone the only light in the darkness. Her husband lay beside her, peacefully snoring, his presence steady and warm, a comfort she cherished deeply. She loved him—there was no doubt about that—but the weight in her chest wasn’t because of him. It was because of the man on the other side of her screen. He wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t even someone she could claim as her own, not in the way she secretly wished. But he was hers in other ways—ways that neither of them had fully admitted.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heart caught between hope and resignation. He was always there for her, but not in the way her husband was. He existed in the quiet spaces of her life, in the pauses between conversations, in the messages sent late at night when the world felt too heavy. She was his best friend, maybe more, but never fully his. And yet, he couldn’t imagine life without her.
There had been nights like this before, when they had shared too much, said things that blurred the lines between friendship and something else. They never spoke about those nights the next day. The silence around them remained unbroken, but it lingered. We crossed a line, didn’t we? she sometimes wondered. But she never asked. Maybe it was better that way.
Her fingers hovered over the screen again as she remembered one night in particular. His voice had been low, full of the heaviness he carried. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here,” he had said. She had paused, heart beating in her throat, but answered as calmly as she could. “I’m not going anywhere.” There had been a moment of silence on the line, one that felt like a confession neither of them could make. They both knew what was left unsaid.
“I’m here,” she had typed now, her fingers trembling slightly as she hit send. “Always.” The message was meant to be a comfort, a promise, but it felt like an echo of her own longing. She wondered if her words were more of a burden to him, a reminder of what he couldn’t have, rather than a source of solace. He needed her—he told her that time and again—but she knew he wasn’t ready to confront the feelings that lingered between them. Maybe he was afraid of what life might look like without her constant support, or maybe he was afraid of something deeper.
Her husband grounded her, a constant presence in her life. But there was something in the late-night messages with him—something that made her heart race in a way that left her both comforted and conflicted. She had once asked herself, How far can I go before it crosses a line? And she wasn’t sure she knew the answer anymore.
His response came slowly, a brief flicker on her screen. “Thanks.” The word seemed to carry more weight than it should—a simple thanks for her endless support, but it also carried a silent apology for his inability to give more. He depended on her in ways that he couldn’t put into words. Walking through life felt impossible sometimes, and he leaned on her to get through the days when his strength ran out. She wasn’t just his guide through the hardest moments; she was his safety net, his reassurance that he wouldn’t fall apart completely.
He lay in his own space, his phone heavy in his hand. Her message was warm, inviting—a reminder that no matter how dark things got, she would always be there. He glanced around his small, cluttered apartment—the empty glass on the table, the unmade bed, the echoes of a life that felt incomplete. “I’m fine,” he typed out, though the words felt hollow. He wasn’t fine. The weight of everything pressed on him daily, leaving him feeling empty, lost. But the thought of facing the world without her support was terrifying. What would happen if she wasn’t there? Could he stand on his own, or would he crumble without her to hold him together?
Lately, there had been something in his voice—an uncertainty, a hesitation she hadn’t heard before. She wondered if he had started to realize, like she had, that they were approaching a line neither of them wanted to cross.
His thoughts drifted back to the past. The long conversations that stretched into the night, the times when she had pulled him back from the edge without even realizing it. There had been that one night, when his thoughts had been darker than usual, when he had typed out a goodbye that felt too final. But she had sensed it, even from miles away. Her words had brought him back. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He hadn’t even realized how much he meant it until the words were already out. She had responded, calm but with an underlying intensity. “You don’t have to find out.”
She had saved him more times than she knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. It would make things too real, too complicated. And maybe part of him feared she would one day get tired of catching him. What would he do then?
He needed her—needed her in ways he didn’t fully understand yet. She wasn’t the one hurting him, but she was the one who kept him going, who lifted him when he couldn’t stand on his own. Without her support, the thought of getting through the day became impossible. She was the one guiding him through the maze of his life, through the uncertainty and fear that kept him tethered to his own doubts and insecurities.
As he drifted off to sleep, the weight of unspoken words and half-formed promises settled over him. He glanced at the empty glass on the table, its reflection catching the night outside. In the quiet darkness, he held onto the hope that somehow, she would keep guiding him through the maze of his life, helping him find a way to survive. He couldn’t make it alone—at least, not yet—but with her by his side, he knew he could make it through another day. Without her, he feared he wouldn’t make it at all.
But somewhere in the quiet space between them, he also knew—one day, this wouldn’t be enough.
Echoes of Midnight
The bathroom tiles were freezing against my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warmth I’d left behind in bed. Not that the warmth had come from him—it was the blankets, maybe the fleeting heat from our bodies, but definitely not him. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I splashed water on my face. The tired woman staring back seemed distant, as if the night had stretched too far, too thin. My eyes were heavy, but sleep wasn’t what I wanted. Or maybe I just didn’t want to fall asleep next to someone I barely knew.
I grabbed my robe, feeling the soft fabric against my skin, though it did little to chase away the coldness that clung to me. The thought of returning to the bedroom made me pause. The stranger in my bed was a reminder of the choices I’d made tonight—choices that seemed so clear just hours ago but now felt like cracks in the night. Kicking him out wasn’t an option; it wasn’t his fault I was tangled in this mess.
I drifted into the living room and curled up in my favorite chair by the window. The night sky was so vast, dotted with stars that seemed too far away to care about anything happening below them. The familiar weight of the universe pressed down on me, and yet, for some reason, it felt less suffocating here, in this small bubble of quiet.
I pulled out my phone, staring at the screen longer than necessary. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing a message I didn’t expect a response to: “Are you there?” It was more of a question for myself than for him. A way to feel less alone in this moment, a lifeline I cast into the dark, hoping for something to pull me back.
I was about to set the phone down when it buzzed. The screen lit up with his face, and my heart did that annoying thing it always did when he called—skipped a beat, like it was preparing itself for something bigger. I hesitated, knowing this was probably a mistake, but I answered anyway.
“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” His voice was gentle but direct, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone. He didn’t bother with pleasantries; he never needed them with me. I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see me, so I added a soft, “Yeah.”
“Are you alone?” The question stung more than I wanted it to. I hated that the answer wasn’t what I wished it could be.
“No,” I whispered, hating how small the word sounded.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes. I’m in the living room, watching the stars.” The words came out quieter than I intended, like I was confessing to something I wasn’t sure how to explain.
There was a pause, a soft sigh from his end. “Okay,” he said, and I could hear him moving, the sound of his footsteps padding softly, just like mine had moments ago. The rustling of sheets, the faint creak of a door—it all felt so intimate, yet so far away. “I’m putting you on speaker,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Just so you know if it sounds different.”
And then the music began.
It was slow at first, the gentle hum of piano chords that floated through the speaker, filling the silence between us. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The music wrapped around me, like it had been written for this moment, for this quiet between us. Each note felt like a breath, exhaling the tension from my body.
I leaned further into the chair, pulling the blanket from the couch and wrapping myself in it. The softness against my skin was a contrast to the cold that lingered in my chest. The night air was cool, but the music, his music, made me feel warm. Warmer than I had felt in bed with that stranger. Warmer than I had felt in a long time.
The stars outside seemed to shimmer a little brighter now, their distant light more comforting than before. I yawned, the weight of the day—or maybe just the weight of everything—settling over me. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until this very moment. I yawned again, this time louder, unashamed of how the exhaustion sounded.
“Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll always be here for you,” he murmured through the music, his voice low and comforting. It was the kind of promise I wanted to hold onto, even if I knew it was impossible. But tonight, in this fragile moment between wakefulness and sleep, I believed him.
I smiled to myself, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket. Maybe he really was my safe place. Maybe that’s what I’d been searching for all along, though the thought felt fragile, like it could shatter if I held it too tightly.
As the music continued, the world around me began to blur. My eyes fluttered closed, and the last thing I felt was the softness of the blanket, the soothing melody still playing, and the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet spaces of my mind. Tomorrow, I might remember his words, or maybe they’d drift away like the stars outside. But for now, they were enough.
For now, I was safe. For now, I slept.
The traveller
He kept his eyes fixed on the road. The white lines snaked under the car, cracked and uneven like old scars. He’d been following them for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The fog blurred everything, smothering the landscape in a thick veil of grey, as if the world itself had been erased.
Continue reading “The traveller”The Busker (edited and revised)
Johnny flicked off the light switch, shouldered his guitar, and tugged his woolen hat down over his ears. The small apartment above the café was barely big enough to stretch out in. A bed shoved against the wall, the stove doubling as a nightstand. Thin walls. Cold floors. But it was warm enough, and the café owner below didn’t mind when Johnny was short on rent, so long as he worked a few shifts to cover the difference. It wasn’t much, but in a city like this, it was everything.
Continue reading “The Busker (edited and revised)”Fractured Lines, Unbroken Circles (new short story)
The café was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. A few patrons sat scattered around, engaged in quiet conversation or lost in their own thoughts. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries, the kind of scent that clings to memories.
Ethan sat across from her, fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup, a habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. His gaze drifted to the window where pedestrians hurried by, oblivious to the conversations unfolding inside. It had been over a decade since they’d first met, and longer still since they’d been anything more than friends. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, but at some point in the last few years, they had settled into this comfortable rhythm: meeting regularly, sharing pieces of their lives, talking about everything and nothing. Still, there was something different in the air today, a quiet tension that neither had acknowledged yet.
She watched him in the quiet way she had always done, studying his face as though seeing it anew. His once sharp features had softened over the years, and while the lines near his eyes betrayed age, they also told the story of someone who had learned to laugh more freely. Time had changed them both. It was a strange thing, she thought, to know someone so well and yet wonder how many versions of them you’ve missed.
She shifted in her seat, her hands resting lightly on the table, fingertips grazing the chipped wood. There was something she needed to say, and though they’d always been good at finding the right words with each other, this conversation felt different. More delicate.
Ethan glanced up from his cup, sensing the change. His brow furrowed, not in worry, but in curiosity. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed, his voice low and familiar. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching hers for some clue as to what was on her mind.
She smiled, but it was a small, thoughtful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just thinking,” she said softly, her fingers absentmindedly running along the edge of the table. “A lot’s changed between us, hasn’t it?”
Ethan’s lips tugged into a half-smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It has. We’ve both changed a lot.”
There was an easy understanding between them, forged over years of shared history. They had been lovers once—briefly, a lifetime ago, it seemed now—but that had faded, a fleeting chapter in a much longer story. After a long silence following their breakup, they had found their way back to each other, rebuilding their relationship as friends, as confidants.
But there was always a lingering question, a quiet “what if” that neither had addressed out loud.
She looked down at her coffee, watching the steam curl upwards, dissolving into the air. “Do you ever think about us?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “About what we were?”
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He shifted in his seat, his fingers pausing in their habitual tracing of the cup. “Sometimes,” he said slowly. “I mean… yeah. But it feels like that was a different time. Like we were different people.”
She nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle around them. “We were. We didn’t really know who we were back then, did we?”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. There was no need for explanations—they both knew. Back then, they’d been young, unsure of themselves, and what they had had burned bright but briefly. The years since had been a slow evolution, a growing into who they really were. The connection they shared now felt stronger, but different. And it was that difference she needed to acknowledge.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” she continued, her voice calm but deliberate. “About you. About us. And how much you mean to me.” She paused, watching him carefully. “I love you, Ethan. I do. But not in the way we thought we would love each other back then.”
Ethan’s expression didn’t change right away. He sat still for a moment, absorbing her words, the weight of them settling into the quiet space between them. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, but his voice, when he spoke, was steady. “You mean… you’re not in love with me.”
She nodded, grateful that he understood. “I’m not,” she said softly. “Not in that way. But I love you all the same. It’s just… different now.”
He let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair as if the air had been sucked out of his chest. But there was no bitterness in his expression, no trace of hurt. He had expected this, perhaps not in so many words, but deep down, he had known.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself more than to her. “I know what you mean.”
She watched him carefully, waiting for him to say more, to fill the silence with some kind of resolution. But he remained quiet, his eyes distant, though not in a way that felt alienating. It was more like he was turning something over in his mind, letting it settle into place. And maybe that was the beauty of their friendship—there was no need to rush through the emotions, no need for dramatic confessions. Just understanding.
“I guess part of me has known for a while too,” Ethan finally said, his voice quiet. “It’s just… you don’t always want to say it out loud, you know?”
She nodded. “I didn’t either. But I felt like it was important.”
He studied her face for a moment, and then smiled. It wasn’t the smile of someone who had lost something; it was the smile of someone who had found clarity. “I get it,” he said, his voice lighter now. “And I love you too, just in a different way.”
Relief washed over her, and for the first time in weeks, the tension she had carried with her seemed to lift. She had known Ethan wouldn’t take it badly—he was too self-aware, too in tune with his own feelings for that—but there had still been a part of her that feared the conversation might change something irrevocable between them. But as she looked at him now, she realized that what had changed was not their friendship itself, but their understanding of it.
“So where does that leave us?” Ethan asked, though his tone was easy, playful even, as though the answer was obvious.
She grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years. “It leaves us right where we are,” she said, her eyes bright. “Still friends. Still close. Still us.”
Ethan chuckled, leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. “Best friends,” he corrected, his smile widening.
She laughed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Best friends.”
And in that moment, it felt right. There was no lingering sense of loss, no question of “what if.” What they had was enough—more than enough. It was stronger than the fleeting romance they’d once shared, more enduring than any past relationship. What they had now was the solid foundation of years spent growing, evolving, and learning who they were, both individually and together.
As they sat there in the fading light of the afternoon, the café slowly filling with the quiet murmur of other conversations, she realized something. They had already become the best versions of themselves, and they were lucky enough to witness that evolution in each other.
And maybe that was all the love they needed.
###
1271 words
Dear diary 5
From the diary of a fictitious woman
Dear diary,
How weird is it that I always start the same way? I could be more creative. But I am not.
It was a quiet day. The usual. Work. Home. Wondering what life is all about. Seeing all the chores but being unable to tackle them. TV in the background for some company. I ignored by my brother’s phone call. I know I am weird. I complain about being lonely and alone, but when someone wants to connect, I push them away with all my might. I love Kev. But he only knows half of me and after a day of masking at work, I cannot mask in my social life anymore. I lack the energy. I simply let his call go to voice mail. Maybe he thinks I am on a date or out for dinner with the girls.
There are no girls, but he doesn’t know that.
Sometimes I wonder if people see or smell on my skin that I used to be happier, that I used to be married. Do they smell the failure? I don’t want to think about it.
These last days I am in a funk. I am going down memory lane too often to ignore that it doesn’t do me any good. There aren’t too many happy memories and there are too many things I would change if I could make it all over.
No one ever tells you how it is, being a woman my age without children and without a man. I get the occasional sneer when I out my social status, but nothing much. It’s different for Kev. He is a man and he has a fiancée and two kids. No work though. Which must be hard too.
I need to go grocery shopping. It takes energy to do that. I should prepare myself a nice dinner and lunch for tomorrow at work. Maybe a bath would be nice. And a meditation before sleep.
Yes, I should try that.
ADD:
I made lunch, but ate a half pack of crisps for dinner. The bath was great. Very relaxing. I got to release some tension too. My fingers still know where to touch to make it good. I am tired and can’t find my headphones. I am just adding this as a reminder to eat healthier. I should buy healthier snacks.
Whenever I think about healthier eating habits, I also wonder why I should put in the effort to look nicer and thinner. Then A very small voice whispers: do it for yourself.
Perks of living on my own? No one cares about wet towels on the hardwood floors, no one cares about air drying my less than perfect body. It’s a little bit of freedom.
But where are my headphones?
reflections of an unquiet mind 