Subtext and Silence
1380 Words
Subtext and Silence
Avril nearly dropped her clipboard when she heard his name.
“Khaid Malik,” the receptionist said through the intercom. “He’s here for his 3 PM.”
Her throat went dry.
It had been over a week. Three missed sessions. Three empty hours she’d filled with overthinking and guilt.
She thought he was done with therapy. Done with her.
But now… he was back.
And she wasn’t ready.
He walked in, calm and collected, like he’d never vanished.
Tall as ever. Dark coat. Clean lines. That same disarming silence.
Avril couldn’t meet his eyes. She fumbled with her notes, her pen, even her posture. Everything felt loud suddenly—her heartbeat, her breathing, her thoughts.
“Welcome back,” she said, forcing her voice into something neutral. “Would you like to pick up where we left off?”
He sat down without answering, elbows on the armrest, fingers interlocked.
“I’m surprised you noticed I was gone,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
“I did,” she replied, barely above a whisper.
Khaid’s gaze flicked around the room, then landed on the small stack of books on her desk.
One of them was a leather-bound journal.
Not his. But it might as well have been.
“Been writing lately?” he asked casually.
Her pulse spiked.
“Excuse me?”
“Writers,” he said, nodding toward the books.
“Always borrowing. Rewriting. Making stories out of other people’s pain.”
She blinked at him.
The words felt sharp—but vague. Non-accusatory. Not enough to prove anything. But just enough to send a jolt of panic down her spine.
“I suppose we all draw from life,” she managed.
He nodded, slow and deliberate.
“I just wonder,” he continued, “how much of someone’s truth can be used before it stops being therapy... and starts being theft.”
Avril looked away.
Her hands trembled slightly. She gripped the arms of her chair to hide it.
“Did something happen while you were away?” she asked, trying to steer the session back to safety.
Khaid smiled—just a little. Not kindly.
“Not really. Just watching people. Thinking a lot. Noticing things.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch between them.
Then, softly:
“It’s funny. You think you know people, and then one day, something’s... off. Their eyes flinch. Their voice cracks. And suddenly, it feels like they’re hiding something.”
Avril bit her lip. Hard.
She wanted to end the session. Or confess. Or run.
But instead, she nodded.
“People are complex,” she said.
Khaid tilted his head.
“That they are, Miss Avril.”
And for the rest of the session, he said nothing else that gave him away.
But the weight of what wasn’t said lingered long after he left.
Avril was mid-draft, fingers dancing over her keyboard, when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She stared at it for a second, heartbeat skipping like it always did now when something unexpected happened.
She let it ring.
It stopped.
Then it rang again.
Same number.
Something in her gut stirred. She picked up.
“Hello?”
Silence. A breath. Then—
“Avril.”
Her hand froze over the laptop. She didn’t need him to say his name.
“Khaid?” she asked anyway, already knowing.
“Yeah,” he said. No apology for the time. No explanation.
“It’s—uh—it’s midnight,” she offered, voice unsure.
“Is it?” he asked, voice low, like he was reclining somewhere in the dark.
She swallowed. “Everything okay?”
“Define okay,” he said dryly. Then, after a pause: “I was thinking about something, and I realized you’re the only person I’d want to talk to about it.”
Her throat tightened. “Khaid—”
“It’s not a therapy thing,” he cut in. “Not really.”
“Then what is it?”
Silence again.
Then, casually: “You want to grab lunch tomorrow?”
The shift in tone was jarring. Her brows furrowed.
“Lunch?” she echoed, as if the word didn’t make sense anymore.
“Yeah. You know… food. In the middle of the day. Something normal.”
Avril hesitated. Every nerve in her body told her this wasn’t casual—not really. But there was something in his voice. Not aggressive. Not flirty. Just… raw.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Text me the place.”
She hung up before she could overthink it.
The next day, she found herself standing outside a quiet café on the edge of town.
Not a therapy office.
Not a surprise.
But it still felt like a session she hadn’t prepared for.
He was already there when she arrived—sitting outside, black sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand like this was just another Tuesday.
“You came,” he said, sliding her a menu.
“I said I would.”
“Doesn’t mean much these days,” he replied, but there was no bite to it.
She sat.
For a moment, it felt normal.
Until he spoke again.
“You ever feel like someone’s writing your life for you?” he asked, stirring his drink.
Avril flinched.
There it was again—his uncanny way of knowing too much.
But she smiled, slow and even.
“No,” she lied. “Not at all.”
They didn’t talk much while ordering. Khaid barely glanced at the menu—he already knew what he wanted. Avril, on the other hand, fidgeted with hers like it was a test she hadn’t studied for.
“So…” she said once their food arrived, “what exactly did you want to talk about?”
Khaid dipped a fry into aioli, chewing slowly before answering. “You ever wonder what people would write about you if they knew everything?”
She blinked. “Isn’t that the point of therapy? Letting someone know everything?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But therapy has rules. Boundaries. A story—without those—it’s chaos.”
Avril looked down at her tea. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted it.
He continued, voice casual. “Sometimes I think people want to be known... just not all at once. They want to be unfolded.”
She didn’t answer.
“I like stories,” he went on. “But I hate it when someone tells the ending too soon. Ruins the tension.”
She looked up at him sharply.
He smiled—just a flicker of it, barely there.
“Why’d you become a therapist?” he asked.
She blinked. “I... just always wanted to help people.”
“That’s the beauty pageant answer.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s also true.”
Khaid leaned back, tapping a finger against his glass. “No offense, but you don’t really look like the ‘help everyone’ type.”
Avril raised a brow. “Oh?”
He shrugged. “You’re more... detached. Like someone watching a story unfold, not stepping in.”
She went quiet.
“I think you like puzzles,” he added, eyes locked on hers. “The messier, the better.”
Her throat felt tight. “And what does that make you?”
“The mess,” he said, not missing a beat.
Then, softer, “Or maybe just one of the pieces.”
They sat in silence for a while.
The sun filtered through the umbrella above them, painting patterns on the table. Khaid watched her—too intently—and she could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.
He sipped his coffee.
“You ever read something that felt too close to home?” he asked, without looking at her.
Her heart skipped. “Sometimes.”
“Hurts in a weird way,” he murmured. “Like… someone peeled back your skin without asking.”
Avril set her cup down, gently.
“Khaid... if there’s something you’re trying to say—”
He cut her off with a smile.
“I’m just talking. Can’t I talk to my therapist over lunch?”
“But this isn’t therapy.”
He met her eyes. “Exactly.”
- Writer
