5: CONVERSATIONS THAT NEVER REACH THE HEART
921 Words
There were voices all around him. But none of them touched him.
The room hummed with low laughter and polished tones—pleasant, practiced, precise. Conversations drifted like smoke through the Laurent estate’s sitting room, curling in the corners but never settling in the air. Zoe sat among them, a glass in hand, nodding at the right moments, speaking when prompted, but never quite hearing or being heard.
His mother was holding court near the fireplace, recounting something about a gallery opening. Her words fell like petals—beautiful and soft, but ultimately lifeless. His father was leaning in close to a senator’s son, spinning the future like it was already written. Staff moved quietly between guests, topping off glasses, clearing untouched canapés, never making eye contact for too long.
Zoe watched it all with a quiet ache under his ribs.
It was the same every time. People said things they didn’t mean, meant things they didn’t say, and everyone seemed perfectly content to exist in the space between. A performance without a script, only expectations.
“I saw your name in the Financial Post,” a woman beside him said, her red lips curved into a smile that never quite reached her eyes. “About that merger with the Koreans. Impressive.”
Zoe looked at her, and for a moment, wondered what her voice would sound like if she said something that mattered. He nodded. “It’s still in the early stages.”
“I’m sure it’ll go through. You’re a Laurent.”
She said it like it was a spell. Like it meant success was inevitable.
He excused himself before she could say more.
In the hallway, the sound of shoes on marble echoed louder than any conversation. He walked slowly, trailing his fingers along the wall, letting the cool stone remind him he was still here—still real, somehow.
He turned into the music room. It was empty, silent, the grand piano sitting like a sentinel in the corner, its lid closed, untouched. He moved toward it, lifted the cover, and sat. His fingers hovered over the keys but didn’t press down. There were songs inside him. But they, too, had learned to stay quiet.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
He turned. It was his cousin, Julian, ever the diplomat, dressed in a charcoal suit that never wrinkled and a tie that screamed heritage.
“I thought I’d find you in here,” Julian said.
“I needed some air.”
Julian crossed the room and leaned against the window frame, arms folded. “You’re not making much effort tonight.”
Zoe said nothing.
“They talk,” Julian continued, a little softer. “They notice.”
“Let them.”
Julian tilted his head. “Do you want to give them another reason to doubt you?”
Zoe looked down at the keys again. His reflection wavered faintly across their surface. “I’m tired of giving them reasons to approve of me.”
Julian’s sigh was quiet, worn. “You can’t afford that luxury. Not with your name.”
There it was again. The name. The legacy. The invisible shackle.
“You ever feel like you’re speaking in a language no one understands?” Zoe asked.
Julian didn’t answer.
“I try,” Zoe continued, voice low, hands still resting on the piano, “to be honest. To say what I feel. But it never lands. People hear what they want to hear. They interpret me like a stock report—what’s the risk, what’s the gain.”
“You’re not a child anymore,” Julian said. “Feelings don’t matter here. Perception does.”
Zoe looked up at him. “Then what’s the point?”
Julian hesitated. Then, instead of answering, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft finality.
Zoe stared at the silence that followed.
So many conversations, but none that reached the places inside him that needed to be touched. Words piled like leaves—beautiful on the surface, but already turning dry.
He stood and walked to the window. Outside, the garden shimmered in silver moonlight. Somewhere beyond the hedges and statues and perfectly trimmed lines was a world where people said what they meant and meant what they said. Somewhere, someone was listening not to respond, but to understand.
He remembered Liana’s voice—vivid, warm, unfiltered. She didn’t tiptoe around the truth. She spoke it. Even when it stung. Especially then.
They’d talked about books, about solitude, about what it felt like to miss someone who was still alive.
And it hadn’t been a performance.
He had felt more in a single evening with her than in a thousand soirées with these people who wore truth like a costume and discarded it the moment it became inconvenient.
Zoe closed his eyes.
It wasn’t that people didn’t talk. They talked endlessly. But so few ever said anything real. And the more he listened, the more he realized they were all just repeating what had been passed down to them—expectations, scripts, etiquette.
Even his own voice was beginning to sound like someone else’s.
He opened his eyes again and turned from the window.
If the words weren’t reaching the heart, then maybe they were meant to protect it. Maybe people built this wall of rehearsed conversation so no one could dig too deep.
But he was done with walls.
He wanted something that mattered. Something that lasted.
Even if it was just a memory.
- Writer
