Chapter 8: Blake
1169 Words
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Thinking anyway.”
“You say that like it’s an accomplishment.”
“It is. Thinking is difficult.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“See? That’s exactly why nobody likes philosophers.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“And yet…”
“Yes, yes, you’re here. I know.”
Silence.
Brief. Comfortable. The sort of silence people only learn to recognize after they’ve spent far too much time around each other.
You know what bothers me? Actually bothers me. Not fake bothers me. Not “I spilled coffee on my shirt” bothers me. Something real.
The fact that you’re trying to choose between us.
Malachi froze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But I noticed. Of course I did.
“Interesting.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Blake.”
“Malachi.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
Silence again.
Interesting, that. People think silence means nothing. But silence says plenty. Silence is where truth gets nervous.
Anyway.
Back to my point.
You’ve started comparing us. Don’t deny it. You have. Maybe you prefer Malachi’s chapters. Maybe you prefer mine. Maybe you like the way he talks. Maybe my jokes are less exhausting. Maybe you trust him more. Maybe you trust me. Maybe you’re trying to decide which one of us is more trustworthy.
People love doing that. Ranking. Comparing. Sorting. Heroes and villains. Good guys and bad guys. Safe people and dangerous people. Humans adore categories. Makes life easier.
Unfortunately, life doesn’t care what categories you prefer.
The answer is neither.
Or both.
Depends on the day. Depends on the moment. Depends on which version of us you’re talking to.
Because trust isn’t permanent.
People act like it is. As though trust is some grand destination. Something you earn once and keep forever.
It isn’t.
Trust changes. People change. Everything changes.
One bad decision can rewrite years of trust. One act of kindness can create it from nothing.
Funny, isn’t it?
How fragile people are.
How fragile relationships are.
Years to build.
Minutes to destroy.
And somehow humans keep trying anyway.
I respect that.
Terrifies me.
But I respect it.
Human beings are strange that way.
“That’s unusually sentimental.”
“I know.”
“You hate sentimentality.”
“I hate admitting sentimentality.”
“Which means?”
“It means shut up.”
He laughed quietly. Not mocking. Not triumphant. Just amused.
“I think you care more than you pretend.”
“And I think you’re annoying.”
“You say that every day.”
“And every day it’s true.”
“And every day you continue talking to me.”
Unfortunately.
He had a point.
Don’t tell him that.
Actually, do.
Watching him become smug is hilarious.
You know what else is strange?
The fact that we’re telling you so much.
That should concern you.
A little.
Not because secrets are dangerous. People misunderstand secrets. Secrets aren’t evil. Secrets are just private things.
Everyone has them.
Everyone.
The happy people.
The lonely people.
The brave people.
The frightened people.
Everybody has rooms inside themselves that nobody enters.
Most people hide behind masks. Most people hide behind lies. Not always malicious lies. Small lies.
“I’m okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“I don’t care.”
Those kinds of lies.
The everyday kind.
The human kind.
We’re doing the opposite.
Or at least pretending to.
Now there’s a thought.
What if everything we’ve told you is true?
What if none of it is?
What if we’re exactly who we claim to be?
What if we’re performing?
What if every joke is calculated?
What if every pause is intentional?
What if every chapter is carefully constructed to make you think certain things?
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s hypothetical.”
“You enjoy making them question things.”
“Everyone should question things.”
“Not everything.”
“No?”
“No.”
He sounded thoughtful.
“Some things require faith.”
“Faith?”
“Yes.”
“In people?”
“In stories.”
“In memories.”
“In yourself.”
I frowned.
“You sound like a fortune cookie.”
“You sound cynical.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Silence.
Not comfortable this time.
Annoying.
Because I hated when he did that.
Hated when he noticed things.
Hated when he was right.
“You think trust is temporary because you’re afraid things end.”
“Things do end.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And ending isn’t the same thing as meaning nothing.”
I didn’t answer.
Mostly because I didn’t want to.
Partly because I couldn’t.
He smiled.
I could hear it.
Which somehow made it worse.
You know what I think?
I think people are obsessed with certainty. You want guarantees. Promises. Forever.
But forever is a terrifying word.
Nothing stays exactly the same.
Not people.
Not memories.
Not feelings.
Nothing.
And maybe that’s sad.
Or maybe that’s beautiful.
Because if everything changed, then every moment matters.
Every laugh.
Every conversation.
Every stupid argument.
Even the quiet moments.
Especially the quiet moments.
Those are the things people miss most.
Not grand speeches.
Not dramatic declarations.
Tiny things.
A glance.
A joke.
Someone saying your name.
Funny.
Life is built from tiny things.
And tiny things are easy to overlook.
Which brings me back to you.
You’re trying to understand us. Trying to decide what parts are true. Trying to decide if we’re honest. Trying to decide if we’re lying.
Good luck with that.
People lie.
Stories lie.
Memories lie.
Sometimes even truth lies.
Or perhaps that’s backwards.
Maybe truth stays the same.
Maybe people just change around it.
There’s a cheerful thought.
“What if everything we’ve told you is true?” Malachi asked quietly.
“What if none of it is?”
I smiled.
“What if that’s not the important question?”
He paused.
“Then what is?”
I looked toward the page.
Toward you.
“The important question is why they’re still reading.”
Silence.
Then, unexpectedly,
He laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he understood.
Because you are still here.
Still listening.
Still wondering.
Still trying to solve two people who keep changing shape every time you think you’ve figured them out.
And maybe that’s the only truth we’ve never lied about.
Not us.
Not our stories.
Not our memories.
You.
Because perhaps the strangest thing about all of this isn’t that we’re speaking.
Or that you’re listening.
It’s that somehow.
Between words and silence.
Between truth and fiction.
You’ve started believing there’s a difference.
Sleep on that.
If you can.
- Writer
