Chapter 9: Malachi
1230 Words
Blake thinks you’re trying to choose between us.
He’s wrong.
Partially.
You’re not choosing.
Not yet.
You’re observing.
Collecting information. Looking for patterns. Trying to understand us before deciding what to think.
I respect that.
Most people rush to conclusions. They see fragments and convince themselves they understand the whole picture. They decide who people are after a single conversation. A single impression. A single mistake.
You don’t.
You linger.
You examine.
You take your time.
It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about you.
“There he goes again.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Continue.”
“How generous of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t thanking you.”
“You never do.”
“No.”
“You should.”
“No.”
He sighed dramatically.
“You wound me.”
“You recover quickly.”
“That’s because I’m resilient.”
“That’s because you’re impossible.”
“Same thing.”
The familiar rhythm settles between us.
Strange, really.
There was a time when his interruptions irritated me.
They still do.
Occasionally.
Frequently.
Constantly.
And yet,
The strange thing is that it feels normal now.
At least to me.
Perhaps it feels normal to you as well.
That’s an unsettling thought.
Not because of what it means about us.
Because of what it means about you.
Humans adapt quickly.
Faster than they realize.
Something feels strange long enough and eventually it stops feeling strange.
It becomes routine.
Expected.
Comfortable.
Comfortable.
That’s an interesting word.
People speak of comfort as though it’s automatically good.
Perhaps it is.
Perhaps it isn’t.
Comfort can heal.
Comfort can protect.
Comfort can also blind.
I wonder if you’re comfortable with us.
I wonder if you’ve reached a point where our voices feel familiar.
Where turning the page feels a little like returning to a conversation.
If so, that should worry you.
Not because we’re dangerous.
Because familiarity creates attachment.
Attachment creates trust.
And trust creates blind spots.
You don’t see people clearly once you trust them.
You see the version of them you want to believe in.
That’s why people get hurt.
That’s why people miss warning signs.
That’s why people ignore obvious truths.
Not because they’re foolish.
Because trust changes perception.
It softens sharp edges.
Excuses for mistakes.
Turns flaws into quirks.
Turns certainty into hope.
Human beings are remarkable that way.
They don’t merely see reality.
They interpret it.
They rewrite it.
Sometimes without realizing.
“You’re making this sound like a lesson.”
Perhaps.
Maybe it is.
Maybe every story is a lesson disguised as entertainment.
“Blake would disagree.”
“Of course I would.”
He leaned into the conversation with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm.
“Stories aren’t lessons,” he said.
“They’re excuses.”
“Excuses?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
He smiled.
I could hear it.
“Stories are excuses for people to feel things they avoid feeling in real life.”
I paused.
“That’s surprisingly insightful.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Perhaps mildly surprised.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The condescension.”
“It’s not condescension.”
“It absolutely is.”
Silence.
Then quietly…
“You know I’m right.”
Unfortunately.
He was.
Stories allow people to feel safely.
Fear.
Hope.
Loss.
Joy.
Grief.
Love.
Regret.
Things they avoid when reality becomes too complicated.
People read because stories let them experience emotions at a distance.
Far enough away to feel safe.
Close enough to matter.
And perhaps that’s why stories endure.
Not because they teach.
Not because they entertain.
Because they remind people that they aren’t alone.
The conversation fades.
Not because we’re finished.
Because we’re thinking.
Both of us.
And perhaps you are too.
Thinking is strange.
People imagine thoughts as loud things.
Questions.
Ideas.
Words.
But most thoughts arrive quietly.
They linger in the background.
Growing.
Changing.
Waiting.
Like seeds beneath the soil.
Invisible until suddenly they aren’t.
And I know there’s a question growing quietly inside your mind.
I know it has been.
You haven’t asked it out loud.
But it’s there.
It has been for a while.
If they’re so different…
Why are they together?
Interesting.
“You felt that too?”
“Of course they did.”
“The question was inevitable.”
Blake sounded almost amused.
“Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long.”
“It’s not a simple answer.”
“Nothing with you is simple.”
“Nothing with us is simple.”
“That’s fair.”
Silence again.
Not awkward.
Thoughtful.
Because the truth is complicated.
And complicated truths rarely fit inside easy explanations.
People want simple answers.
Simple relationships.
Simple reasons.
But simplicity is often a lie.
People are contradictions.
Relationships are contradictions.
You can love someone and resent them.
Admire them and disagree with them.
Understand them and still feel misunderstood.
Need them and wish for solitude.
Contradictions do not destroy connection.
They define it.
Blake understands me in ways I dislike.
And I understand him in ways he pretends not to appreciate.
“Pretends?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate you.”
The words surprised me.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You never say things like that.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
I almost smiled.
“Blake.”
“Yes?”
“Was that honesty?”
“No.”
“Blake.”
“Yes.”
“It was.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
Another pause.
“But don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Noted.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Perhaps I was.
People often imagine relationships are built on grand moments.
Declarations.
Promises.
Dramatic speeches.
They aren’t.
Relationships are built on ordinary things.
Annoyances.
Conversations.
Shared silences.
Inside jokes.
Arguments nobody remembers.
And somehow, those small things become impossible to replace.
Funny.
Life keeps returning to small things.
The little things.
The things people overlook.
Perhaps that’s why memory works the way it does.
People forget years.
But remember voices.
Remember laughter.
Remember a look.
A sentence.
A moment.
Tiny things.
Tiny things that become enormous with time.
And perhaps that’s what we’ve become.
Not answers.
Not opposites.
Not heroes.
Not villains.
Just two voices.
Two minds.
Two people trying to understand each other.
And perhaps trying to understand you as well.
“You know something?”
Blake spoke softly.
“What?”
“They’re still wondering.”
“About us?”
“About everything.”
I considered that.
“Yes.”
“They are.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are we going to answer them?”
I smiled slightly.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“That’s cruel.”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“Patience.”
He laughed quietly.
“You always did enjoy mystery.”
“And you always enjoyed ruining it.”
“Not ruining.”
He corrected gently.
“Sharing.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“Close enough.”
The answer, unfortunately, is complicated.
And complicated answers require time.
Luckily for all of us.
We have plenty of that.
- Writer
