Chapter 7: Malachi
1214 Words
Blake believes honesty is saying whatever comes to mind.
I disagree.
To him, truth is immediate.
Unfiltered.
Spontaneous.
He speaks first and worries about consequences later.
He insists that’s sincerity.
I insist that’s recklessness.
Real honesty requires precision.
Care.
Thought.
The truth is a fragile thing.
People treat truth as though it’s some indestructible object. As though facts alone are enough. As though simply saying something makes it right.
But truth isn’t that simple.
Truth can be distorted.
Misunderstood.
Misused.
Handled carelessly, it becomes something else entirely.
A lie.
A misunderstanding.
A weapon.
You should remember that.
Words matter.
People forget that.
Perhaps because words are invisible.
They leave no bruises.
No scars you can point to.
No evidence that something important happened.
Yet words shape people.
A single sentence can remain inside someone for decades.
A cruel comment spoken thoughtlessly.
A compliment given sincerely.
An apology that arrived too late.
Three words spoken at exactly the right moment.
Or exactly the wrong one.
People underestimate language because it disappears the moment it’s spoken.
But disappearing isn’t the same as being gone.
Memories survive.
Feelings survive.
Sometimes words survive longer than people.
Perhaps that’s why you’re here.
Perhaps that’s why you’re reading.
Words have always had power over people.
Stories existed long before any of us.
Long before books.
Long before names.
Human beings sat around fires and exchanged stories because stories gave shape to fear.
To hope.
To grief.
Stories helped people understand things they couldn’t explain.
And perhaps they still do.
Perhaps that’s why you keep reading.
Not because you’re looking for answers.
But because stories understand loneliness in ways people sometimes don’t.
Another thought.
A single sentence can stay with someone for years.
A single conversation can alter the direction of a life.
People imagine change as something dramatic.
Lightning.
Earthquakes.
Life-changing revelations.
But most changes happen quietly.
A stranger says something kind.
A friend gives advice.
Someone laughs when you expected judgment.
Someone stays when you expected them to leave.
And suddenly your life becomes something different.
Not because of grand events.
Because of words.
Funny.
Entire lives built upon conversations nobody remembers having.
Names are important, too.
Blake pretends they aren’t.
But they are.
Names make people real.
Children learn that quickly.
The moment someone knows your name, you become more than a stranger.
More than a face.
More than a passing thought.
Names anchor people.
They turn “someone” into someone.
That’s why I hesitated to tell you mine.
Not because it was secret.
Not because I feared it.
Because names carry weight.
Because now I exist a little more clearly inside your mind.
You can imagine me.
Picture me.
Wonder about me.
The same is true for Blake.
And the more real we become…
The less distance there is between us.
“Interesting choice of words.”
I sighed.
“I know.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“Perhaps.”
“You definitely did.”
“You’re interrupting.”
“I’m observing.”
“No. You’re interrupting.”
“Those are synonyms.”
“They absolutely are not.”
He laughed quietly.
“You know, you say distance like it frightens you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
Silence.
Then…
“Maybe a little.”
“See? Honesty.”
“Don’t become insufferable.”
“Too late.”
You see?
This is why Blake irritates me.
He notices things.
Everything.
Especially things I wish he’d miss.
He notices when I hesitate.
When I avoid questions.
When I speak too carefully.
He notices things I don’t say.
Which is unfortunate.
Because silence reveals almost as much as words.
Perhaps more.
People speak constantly.
But what fascinates me are the things they choose not to say.
The pauses.
The unfinished thoughts.
The jokes hiding discomfort.
The smiles concealing sadness.
Humans are strange.
They reveal themselves while trying not to.
But enough about Blake.
Let’s talk about you.
You’re building versions of us inside your head.
I know you are.
Everybody does.
Not just with stories.
With people.
You do it every day.
You meet someone.
And your mind begins constructing them.
Who they are.
What they like.
What they fear.
What kind of person they must be.
You fill the empty spaces with assumptions.
Everyone does.
It’s unavoidable.
The question is whether those versions are correct.
And the answer?
Probably not.
People rarely know each other as well as they think.
You imagine voices.
Expressions.
Personalities.
Faces.
You decide who someone is long before you truly know them.
And sometimes you’re right.
Most times, you’re wrong.
Not because you’re foolish.
Because people are complicated.
There are versions of me you’ll never know.
Versions of Blake you’ll never understand.
And versions of yourself you’ve never met.
That’s the strange thing about identity.
Nobody sees the entire picture.
Not your family.
Not your friends.
Not the people who love you.
Not even you.
Everyone carries private worlds.
Dreams they don’t share.
Regrets they don’t explain.
Memories they revisit in silence.
Conversations they replay at three in the morning.
Fear.
Hope.
Shame.
Longing.
Invisible things.
Entire universes hidden behind ordinary smiles.
Perhaps that’s why understanding another person feels so miraculous.
Not because we truly know them.
But because despite all the mysteries,
We try.
And trying matters.
“That’s sentimental.”
Blake’s voice interrupted again.
“It’s true.”
“It’s sentimental and true.”
“Those aren’t opposites.”
“They should be.”
I almost smiled.
“You know,” he continued, “they’re doing it right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Building us.”
I paused.
He continued.
“They’ve decided what I sound like.”
“What you look like.”
“What I look like.”
“What kind of smile I have.”
“What kind of expression you wear when you’re pretending not to care.”
I sighed.
“They probably imagine you frowning.”
“Because I’m usually frowning.”
“And me?”
I smiled slightly.
“They probably imagine you smiling.”
He laughed.
“Poor fools.”
“You object?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“I think it’s nice.”
“You think everything’s nice.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“Just being imagined by someone.”
Silence.
Then, quietly,
“That sounds lonely.”
“Maybe.”
“Was that honesty?”
“Perhaps.”
You see?
Even now you’re building us.
Not the truth.
Not entirely.
Just fragments.
Pieces.
Your version of us.
And perhaps that’s enough.
Because people are not paintings.
They’re mosaics.
Collections of broken pieces viewed from different angles.
Nobody sees the same image.
Nobody tells the same story.
Nobody remembers the same person.
And maybe that’s beautiful.
Because certainty ends mysteries.
But uncertainty?
Uncertainty leaves room for wonder.
And wonder…
Wonder keeps stories alive.
Perhaps that’s why you’re still here.
Perhaps that’s why we’re still here.
Not because you know us.
Not because we know you.
But because somewhere between imagination and memory…
Between words and silence…
Between who we are and who you think we are…
Something real exists.
Not perfect.
Not complete.
But real enough.
And for now…
Perhaps that’s enough.
- Writer
