Chapter 5: Malachi
1059 Words
Blake enjoys pretending he doesn’t care.
It’s one of his many flaws.
He hides behind jokes. Behind sarcasm. Behind those ridiculous remarks he insists are charming. He likes people to think nothing reaches him. That nothing lingers. That nothing matters more than a passing amusement.
It’s nonsense, of course.
He cares more than anyone I’ve ever met.
Don’t tell him I said that.
Actually, do.
Watching him deny it would be entertaining.
He’d roll his eyes. Complain dramatically. Insist that I’m making things up.
Then he’d spend the next week proving me right without realizing it.
That’s Blake.
He performs indifference because caring requires vulnerability.
And vulnerability terrifies people.
Not just him.
Everyone.
Including you.
But this chapter isn’t about Blake.
No.
It’s about you.
Again.
Everything keeps coming back to you.
Have you noticed that?
Every conversation.
Every disagreement.
Every observation.
Even the moments when nobody speaks.
You exist in all of them somehow.
Not because the universe revolves around you.
It doesn’t.
No matter what Blake says.
But because people leave traces inside each other.
Invisible fingerprints.
Memories.
Impressions.
Tiny things that seem meaningless until years later, when they suddenly return without warning.
Most people never realize how much space they occupy inside other people’s lives.
A passing comment.
A shared smile.
A stupid joke.
An awkward silence.
A brief conversation in a place neither of you remembers anymore.
Small moments.
Tiny things.
Yet those tiny things stay with people.
Sometimes forever.
Human memory is strange like that.
People assume memories are built from important events.
Birthdays.
Graduations.
Funerals.
Heartbreak.
But memory doesn’t care about importance.
Memory is selfish.
It keeps whatever it wants.
Sometimes you’ll forget an entire year.
But you’ll remember the sound of someone’s laughter.
You’ll forget the name of a teacher.
But remember the way sunlight looked through a classroom window.
You’ll forget conversations.
Yet remember how someone made you feel.
Funny, isn’t it?
Feelings survive long after details disappear.
Which makes me wonder.
Which version of you exists in other people’s memories?
The funny version?
The kind version?
The quiet version?
The angry version?
The awkward version?
The version that smiled when they were hurting?
The version that pretended everything was okay?
The version that cried when nobody else was around?
People collect pieces of each other.
Fragments.
Nobody ever gets the complete picture.
Not even you.
Especially not you.
Because there’s a version of yourself you’ve never seen.
The version everyone else knows.
And I find that fascinating.
You spend your entire life trapped inside one perspective.
Your own.
You hear your own thoughts.
You know your own fears.
You know your regrets.
But everyone else?
They only know what you leave behind.
Imagine seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes.
Not a mirror.
Not a photograph.
Someone else’s memories.
Someone else’s stories.
Someone else’s version of you.
Would you like that person?
Would you recognize them?
Would you trust them?
I don’t know.
Perhaps that’s the tragedy of being human.
You never truly meet yourself.
Not completely.
You only know the inside.
Everyone else only knows the outside.
And somewhere between those two things…
A person exists.
The real person.
The one nobody fully understands.
Not your family.
Not your friends.
Not the people who love you.
Not even yourself.
And maybe that’s okay.
Perhaps people aren’t meant to be completely understood.
Perhaps mystery is necessary.
Blake once told me that puzzles stop being interesting once they’re solved.
I disagreed.
He claimed I always do.
“Because you do.”
“You weren’t supposed to interrupt.”
“You said my name.”
“That doesn’t summon you.”
“It absolutely does.”
A pause.
“You’re talking about them again.”
“I’m aware.”
“You always do.”
“And you always interrupt.”
“Someone has to keep you from sounding like a philosophy textbook.”
“I don’t sound like a philosophy textbook.”
“You absolutely do.”
Silence.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just quietly.
“You know,” he said, “they’re probably trying to figure us out right now.”
“They always are.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you think they’ll ever understand us?”
Another pause.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because people don’t understand each other.”
He smiled.
“That’s depressing.”
“No. I think it’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Imagine understanding everything. Every mystery. Every question. Every person. Nothing would surprise you anymore.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“You almost sounded wise.”
“I am wise.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
He sighed dramatically.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He laughed again.
And just like that, he disappeared back into the spaces between thoughts where he always seems to live.
Another thing I find fascinating about people is how desperately they want certainty.
Answers.
Labels.
Definitions.
Humans crave things they can understand.
Things they can control.
Things they can explain.
But life doesn’t work that way.
People change.
Memories change.
Feelings change.
Even truths change depending on who’s remembering them.
Humans are puzzles that constantly reshape themselves.
That’s what makes them beautiful.
Not perfection.
Not certainty.
Change.
Growth.
Contradiction.
One day you’re fearless.
The next day you’re afraid.
One day you’re kind.
The next day you’re selfish.
One day you’re certain.
The next day you’re lost.
And somehow…
You’re still you.
Or perhaps you’re becoming someone new.
Maybe that’s all identity really is.
Becoming.
Never arriving.
Never finishing.
Always changing.
Always discovering.
Always wondering.
And perhaps that’s why I keep watching.
Not because I expect answers.
Not because I expect perfection.
But because every day reveals something new.
Not just about you.
About everyone.
Human beings are stories pretending to be people.
Collections of memories and dreams and fears.
And every chapter changes the one before it.
Which means nobody is ever truly finished.
Nobody is ever fully known.
Nobody is ever just one thing.
And yet…
Out of all the mysteries I’ve encountered.
Out of all the questions that remain unanswered.
Out of all the strange and beautiful contradictions that make people who they are…
Somehow…
You’re still my favorite mystery.
And I suspect…
You always will be.
- Writer
