Chapter 2: Two Voices
1115 Words
You came back.
I knew you would.
No, that isn’t arrogance. It's an observation. There’s a difference.
People always return to unanswered questions. They return to locked doors, to unfinished stories, to things they don’t understand. And right now, that’s us.
You don’t know who I am. You don’t know where I am. You don’t even know my name. Not yet. But you’re curious. Curiosity is a powerful thing. It’s what brought you here. It’s what keeps your eyes moving across these pages. It’s what…
“Oh, please.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what”?
“Talking like you’re narrating a documentary.”
You stopped reading for a second, didn’t you?
Good.
That means you’re paying attention.
You heard that voice. Not mine. His. And now you’re confused. That’s understandable. You thought there was only one of us. Most people would. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Simpler. But life rarely bothers being simple.
“Allow me to introduce myself.”
“No.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Why not?”
“Because introductions are boring.”
“You are impossible.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
The voice sighs, and somehow you can almost hear it. Not imagine it. hear it. The kind of sigh that belongs to someone who’s had the same argument so many times that he knows exactly how it ends.
“Fine,” the voice mutters. “My name is Blake. There. Happy?”
“Not particularly.”
“And since he’s already ruined the moment,” another voice says, smoother and calmer, “I suppose I should introduce myself as well. My name is Malachi.”
Now we have names.
Wonderful.
“You’re welcome.”
“Nobody thanked you.”
“Nobody had to.”
Silence follows. Not for long, just long enough for the information to settle.
Malachi.
Blake.
Two names. Two strangers. Two voices speaking directly to you.
That should bother you more than it does.
“I think they’re handling it surprisingly well,” Blake remarks.
“Of course you do.”
“No, seriously. Think about it. If two strangers started talking to you in real life, you’d probably walk away. You’d make an excuse. Pretend you got a text. Anything. But here?” His voice brightens. “You stay. You listen. You want answers.”
“Stories make people brave.”
“Or stupid.”
“Sometimes both.”
Blake laughs softly.
“I like that answer.”
“I know.”
“You like all your answers.”
“True.”
The pages grow quiet again, though never truly silent.
“You should know something about Malachi.”
“Don’t.”
“He’s about to ignore me.”
“Correct”.
“He’s going to pretend he doesn’t care what I say.”
“Also correct.”
“And then he’s secretly going to listen to every word anyway.”
…
“There it is. No denial.”
“That’s because you’re annoying.”
“That’s because I’m right.”
The conversation shifts, not dramatically, just enough. Like two people adjusting themselves in a room neither intends to leave. And somehow, inevitably, the focus returns to you.
It always returns to you.
Maybe you haven’t noticed that yet. Or maybe you have. Every sentence circles back. Every observation. Every argument. Every thought. Somehow, you are at the center of all of them.
Strange, isn’t it?
Strange in the way thunderstorms are strange. In the way shadows are strange. In the way being watched feels strange.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll scare them.”
“Good.”
“Not good.”
“A little good.”
You can practically picture Malachi rubbing a hand over his face.
“You make everything worse.”
“I make everything more interesting.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not a very big one.”
Their argument fades. Not because it’s over, something tells you their arguments never really end. They simply pause, waiting for another opportunity. Waiting for another page.
Waiting for you.
And that’s the strange part.
Not that there are two of us. Not that we’re speaking to you. Not even that we know you’re here.
The strange part is this.
You’ve only known us for a short time.
And already, you’re wondering what happens next.
“Good,” Blake says with a grin you somehow hear more than see.
Because so are we.
The silence that follows is longer this time. Comfortable. Familiar. Until Blake speaks again.
“You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think they expected something scary.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“The mysterious narrator thing. The creepy atmosphere. The dramatic pauses.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Another pause.
“Do you think they’re picturing us?”
“No.”
“They are.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
“They’re not.”
“Then why are you fixing your posture?”
“I am not…”
“You absolutely are.”
Malachi sighs again.
“You know, for someone who claims not to care, you’re awfully concerned about appearances.”
“And for someone who talks too much, you ask a lot of questions.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation?”
“Existing.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Yet effective.”
Once again, they fall quiet. Not because they’ve run out of things to say. That would be impossible. No, they’re listening. Listening to the turning of pages. Listening to the moments when your eyes linger just a little longer. Listening to the spaces between your thoughts.
And perhaps…just perhaps…listening for something else.
Because despite the jokes, despite the arguments, despite the strange familiarity neither of them can explain, there is one thought they both share.
Neither says it aloud.
Not yet.
Not because they don’t want to.
Because saying it aloud would make it real.
And reality, contrary to popular belief, is a dangerous thing.
Still, Blake smiles.
You don’t know how.
You simply know.
Malachi notices.
Of course he does.
He notices everything.
And for the first time since you’ve met them, neither interrupts. Neither argues. Neither jokes.
They simply turn their attention toward you.
And together, in the silence between one sentence and the next, they think the exact same thing.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because somehow, without realizing it, you’ve become part of the story.
And stories, once they begin, have a habit of refusing to let go.
- Writer
