THINGS NOT SAID
627 Words
Chapter Five
Things Not Said
It was raining.
Not the kind of storm that raged. The quiet kind. The kind that painted the streets in silver sheen and made everything smell like damp earth and memory.
Julian had spent the night again. Not in passion this time, but in comfort. They’d eaten curry out of paper boxes, shared a blanket on her couch, and fallen asleep watching some old black-and-white film that Leah barely remembered by morning.
And now… she was letting him see her real life. The in-between moments. No makeup. Hair tied up. A stain on her hoodie she hadn’t noticed until halfway through tea.
He didn’t seem to mind.
He looked at her like this was when he saw her most.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. The rain tapped against the windows. Leah’s fingers circled the rim of her mug, something quiet building in her chest.
“I haven’t told you about him,” she said suddenly.
Julian looked up. He didn’t ask “Who?” — he knew. The him all women speak of when they lower their voice and brace their chest.
“You don’t have to,” he said gently.
“I do.”
She exhaled slowly. “His name was Aaron. We were together for four years. He said he wanted a quiet life — the kind I had. A flower shop, a garden, slow days. But he lied.”
Julian didn’t move. Just listened.
“He was restless. Cold, sometimes. But when it was good, it was really good. I thought that made it worth it. Until it wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
“He left,” she said. “Woke up one day and said he couldn’t breathe in this town. That he felt like he was disappearing.”
Julian’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t speak.
Leah swallowed. “He said I was nice, but boring. That I mistook silence for depth. That's all I had was petals and daydreams.”
Julian reached across the table, placing his hand gently over hers.
“None of that was about you,” he said. “That was a man looking in a mirror and blaming the frame.”
Leah blinked.
Tears threatened, but didn’t fall.
“I started believing him,” she whispered. “That I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t… interesting. Or wild. Or wanted.”
Julian stood up then — slowly — and walked around to her. He crouched beside her chair, looking up into her face like she was sunlight through a cracked window.
“You are the most real thing I’ve known in years.”
She looked at him, unsure.
“You smell like jasmine and honesty,” he continued, voice low. “You don’t chase attention — it comes to you. And I see you, Leah. Not because you’re trying to be seen. But because you exist in a way the world forgot how to.”
A tear finally slipped.
He kissed it.
And then he stood, gently pulling her up with him. No rush. Just warmth. He led her to the living room, where the rain outside had softened to a hum.
There, on the couch, he held her.
No touch meant to lead anywhere. Just skin and skin. Arm to chest. Breath to breath.
And when she looked at him — looked — she realized:
Julian was healing, too.
He just did it quieter.
Later that evening, they danced.
No music. Just the hush of the rain and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. His hands found her waist. Hers slid around his neck. And they swayed.
She rested her head against his chest.
And for the first time in years… she didn’t feel hollow.
She felt at home.
- Writer
