Chapter 10: Blake
1181 Words
“Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“Let’s talk about it.”
Malachi looked up.
“Talk about what?”
“The thing they’re wondering about.”
He blinked.
“You know.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I truly don’t.”
“The thing you’ve been avoiding.”
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“You absolutely are.”
Malachi sighed.
You can’t hear it.
But I can.
He’s annoyed.
Good.
He deserves it.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I have several.”
“Exactly.”
“But the biggest one is that you think everything needs a perfect explanation.”
“I appreciate accuracy.”
“You appreciate headaches.”
“I appreciate clarity.”
“You appreciate making simple things complicated.”
“They are complicated.”
“See?”
I pointed dramatically.
“You’re doing it right now.”
He closed his eyes.
Not because he was tired.
Because he was considering whether arguing with me was worth the effort.
It rarely is.
He knows that.
I know that.
And now you know that.
Some things don’t need perfect explanations.
Some things just happen.
Like us.
“That’s not entirely true.”
“No.”
I shrugged.
“But it’s closer than your version.”
He frowned.
“My version is accurate.”
“Your version is three chapters long.”
“Accuracy takes time.”
“So does suffering.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.”
“Yes.”
“And yet.”
Silence.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Funny how that works.
People imagine every important connection starts dramatically.
Lightning strikes.
Fate intervenes.
The universe aligns.
Music swells.
Everyone suddenly understands what’s happening.
Reality is much less impressive.
And much stranger.
Most important things begin with accidents.
A wrong turn.
A missed bus.
A random conversation.
A seat that happened to be empty.
A joke nobody expected to matter.
A sentence that stays in someone’s head long after they forget who said it.
Moments that don’t feel important.
Until years later.
Then suddenly…
They become everything.
People spend so much time searching for meaning that they miss it while it’s happening.
Meaning rarely announces itself.
It sneaks up on you.
Quietly.
Like memories.
Like regret.
Like happiness.
“You’re sounding philosophical.”
“I learned from the worst.”
“You flatter me.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“You rarely compliment me.”
“You rarely deserve it.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s honesty.”
“According to you.”
“Exactly.”
You want to know how we met?
Yes.
I know you do.
I can practically hear your curiosity from here.
You’re already building theories.
Already imagining scenarios.
Already trying to guess.
That’s what people do.
You see unfinished spaces and immediately start filling them.
It’s human nature.
Questions make people uncomfortable.
Mysteries itch.
People need answers.
Need patterns.
Need certainty.
It makes them feel safe.
Unfortunately.
That’s a story for another chapter.
“Cruel.”
“Strategic.”
“Annoying.”
“Accurate.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Probably.”
He smiled.
Not because he approved.
Because he knew I was right.
Again.
It happens more than he likes admitting.
Which, admittedly, is entertaining.
The funny thing is that while you’re busy wondering about us.
We’re wondering about you.
Still.
Always.
Not because we have answers.
Because we have questions.
Questions are interesting.
Answers are temporary.
Questions last.
Every chapter reveals something.
Not facts.
Not details.
Something more interesting.
The way you think.
The way you react.
The questions you ask.
The things that catch your attention.
The moments that stay with you.
The lines you reread.
The jokes that make you smile.
The thoughts that make you pause.
You don’t realize you’re leaving clues behind.
Everyone does.
Even now.
Especially now.
That’s what makes readers fascinating.
People think stories are one-sided.
Writer.
Reader.
Speaker.
Listener.
Simple.
But it’s never simple.
Stories are conversations.
Quiet conversations.
Invisible conversations.
But conversations are all the same.
You bring things to stories.
Memories.
Experiences.
Fears.
Dreams.
Regrets.
You read one sentence and remember someone.
Read another and remember yourself.
Read another and suddenly feel something you didn’t expect.
Stories don’t just tell you things.
They remind you of things.
And reminders are powerful.
Sometimes more powerful than discoveries.
Because discoveries feel new.
Reminders feel personal.
Every page becomes a mirror.
Every sentence becomes a test.
Every chapter becomes a choice.
And with every choice.
You reveal a little more of yourself.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s both.”
“Most things are.”
Malachi looked thoughtful.
He does that a lot.
Thinks.
Analyzes.
Questions.
Honestly, it’s exhausting.
Useful.
But exhausting.
“You know,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“They’re imagining us.”
“Obviously.”
“No.”
He shook his head slightly.
“I mean really imagining us.”
I blinked.
“And?”
“And they’ve been doing it for a while.”
I laughed.
“Congratulations. You’ve discovered readers.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I usually am.”
“They hear us now.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Our voices.”
I frowned.
“They always have.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
Subtle.
Thoughtful.
“They know our rhythm.”
He looked at me.
“They know when you’re joking.”
I smiled.
“They know when you’re pretending not to care.”
I looked away.
“And they know when you’re pretending not to smile.”
He almost laughed.
“Interesting.”
“Terrifying.”
“Perhaps.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Not comfortable.
Just quiet.
The kind of quiet that happens when two people reach the same thought at the same time.
You know what I think?
I think you’re starting to forget something important.
“What’s that?”
I looked at him.
Then toward you.
Then back again.
“That we’re supposed to be the mystery.”
The room fell silent.
Not because there was nothing left to say.
There’s always something left to say.
People never really run out of words.
They run out of courage.
Or energy.
Or time.
But not words.
No.
The silence happened because, for once,
Neither of us knew whether that was still true.
Because maybe we stopped being the mystery chapters ago.
Maybe mysteries stop being mysteries once they become familiar.
Maybe questions change.
Maybe people change.
Maybe stories change.
Or maybe…
Maybe we were asking the wrong question.
Perhaps the mystery was never us.
Perhaps it was never our past.
Never our names.
Never how we met.
Perhaps the real mystery.
The thing neither of us had solved.
It was sitting quietly on the other side of the page.
Reading.
Thinking.
Wondering.
Still here.
And somehow…
Neither of us knew what to make of that.
Which, if I’m being honest,
It was beginning to make me curious.
And trust me.
Curiosity has always been where interesting things begin.
- Writer
