Chapter 6: Blake
1123 Words
You know what I like about you?
Actually, don’t answer that.
You’d probably get it wrong.
Most people do.
That sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?
Maybe it is.
But I’ve noticed something about people. They always assume they know what matters to other people. They assume affection follows a list.
A smile.
A laugh.
A pretty face.
A shared hobby.
Some magical moment under the stars where violins start playing and everyone suddenly understands each other.
Stories love those things.
Movies love those things.
People love those things.
Not me.
Or at least not in the way people expect.
I like contradictions.
And you?
You’re full of them.
Everyone is.
But yours are interesting.
You tell yourself one thing and do another.
You say you’re cautious.
Yet here you are.
Still reading.
Still listening.
Still spending time with two voices that have admitted they know far more about you than they probably should.
See?
Contradiction.
You think curiosity makes you brave.
And sometimes it does.
Sometimes curiosity is courage.
Sometimes curiosity changes the world.
People discovered continents because of curiosity.
Built telescopes because of curiosity.
Asked impossible questions because of curiosity.
But sometimes?
Sometimes curiosity just makes you stubborn.
I think you’re stubborn.
Malachi would call it determination.
That’s because Malachi likes making things sound noble.
He’s reading over my shoulder right now.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I merely happened to notice what you were saying.”
“Which is reading.”
“That’s an oversimplification.”
“No, it’s called eyesight.”
A pause.
“Okay,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe a little.”
“Exactly.”
See?
He acts mysterious, but he’s terrible at pretending.
Don’t tell him I said that.
Actually, do.
Watching him become offended is one of life’s few free entertainments.
“You make me sound dramatic.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I am thoughtful.”
“You compared rain to grief last week.”
“Because it was poetic.”
“Because you’re dramatic.”
Silence.
Then he sighed.
“You lack appreciation for art.”
“And you lack appreciation for sarcasm.”
“We complement each other.”
“We tolerate each other.”
“You say that as though there’s a difference.”
There was another pause.
Neither of us answered.
Because unfortunately…
He had a point.
Funny, isn’t it?
People spend so much time defining themselves by their differences.
Politics.
Opinions.
Music.
Books.
Food.
Little preferences they use like shields.
But the things people have in common?
Those matter more.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Hope.
Love.
Regret.
Everyone carries those.
Everyone.
You know what’s funny?
You probably imagine us as complete opposites.
The serious one and the reckless one.
The careful one and the chaotic one.
The philosopher and the i***t.
“i***t?”
“You heard me.”
“I object.”
“Duly noted.”
“The readers like me more.”
“You assume that.”
“I know that.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And charming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Anyway.
You probably imagine us standing on opposite sides of the room.
Different.
Separate.
Nothing alike.
The truth is much worse.
We’re more alike than either of us wants to admit.
“Don’t tell them that.”
“Too late.”
Secrets don’t stay secrets very long around here.
Not when every page is listening.
Not when every thought echoes.
Not when two people know each other well enough to predict what the other will say before they say it.
That’s terrifying, by the way.
Knowing someone.
Really knowing them.
Not favorite-color knowing.
Not birthday knowing.
Not what kind of pizza they order.
I mean knowing.
Knowing when they’re lying.
Knowing when they’re hurting.
Knowing when they’re pretending to smile.
Knowing when they need silence instead of advice.
People think understanding someone makes things easier.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes it makes things harder.
Because once you understand someone…
You start noticing things.
Things they don’t even notice themselves.
Their habits.
Their fears.
The jokes they tell when they’re uncomfortable.
The way they change subjects when something hurts.
The way they go quiet when they’re overwhelmed.
You begin collecting pieces.
Fragments.
Patterns.
Not because you’re trying to.
Because people leave traces behind.
Everyone does.
Even you.
Especially you.
You leave traces everywhere.
In conversations.
In memories.
In little moments you forgot ten minutes after they happened.
But other people remember them.
Funny how that works.
You forget things that become important to someone else.
And someone else forgets things that meant everything to you.
Human beings are strange collectors.
We collect memories.
Regrets.
Photographs.
Songs.
Voices.
Pieces of each other.
Maybe that’s why people are so afraid of being forgotten.
Not because they want fame.
Not really.
They just want proof that they mattered.
Proof that they existed in someone else’s story.
I understand that.
More than I probably should.
Though don’t tell Malachi that.
“He already knows.”
“Were you listening again?”
“You say that as though you weren’t aware.”
“You really are impossible.”
“You say that with affection.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then, very quietly…
“Yes.”
See?
That’s another contradiction.
People insult the things they care about.
Tease the people they trust.
Push away the things they’re afraid to lose.
Humans are strange like that.
Complicated.
Messy.
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
And despite everything,
Despite the arguments.
Despite the interruptions.
Despite the fact that he’s currently pretending not to smile.
“We’re not discussing that.”
“See?”
Despite all of it…
We’re more alike than either of us wants to admit.
Because beneath the sarcasm and the poetry…
Beneath the jokes and the silence…
We both understand one thing.
People are mysteries.
Not problems.
Not equations.
Not stories waiting to end.
Mysteries.
Always changing.
Always surprising.
Always revealing something new.
And maybe that’s why neither of us ever gets tired of asking questions.
Because answers are temporary.
But questions?
Questions live forever.
And speaking of questions…
There’s one I’ve been wondering.
Not about me.
Not about him.
About you.
How many contradictions do you carry?
How many versions of yourself are fighting to become real?
How many truths do you hide behind jokes?
How many fears do you disguise as caution?
How many dreams do you dismiss because they sound ridiculous?
And perhaps most importantly,
If you ever met yourself as a stranger…
Would you understand who you are?
Or would you become just another mystery…
Listening from the other side of the page?
- Writer
