EpisodeThree
1266 Words
What We Don’t Say
Malik learned early that silence could be a shield.
It protected you from questions you weren’t ready to answer, from people who wanted more than you could safely give. Silence had kept him alive long enough to matter. Long enough to believe he could outpace his past if he stayed quiet and kept moving.
But some silences were louder than gunshots.
By the third night in a row, Malik was no longer pretending he wasn’t waiting for Arielle’s name to light up his screen.
He parked near the river, engine idling, city lights flickering across the water like broken promises. The clock on the dashboard read 11:48 p.m. He told himself he’d leave if nothing came through by midnight.
The app chimed at 11:52.
Pickup: Downtown Arts District.
Passenger: Arielle B.
Malik closed his eyes briefly.
“Of course,” he murmured, then accepted.
She was outside a coffee shop that had long since stopped serving coffee, camera hanging low, jacket pulled tight. When she got into the car, she smelled faintly of smoke and something floral like she’d been standing between two different lives.
“You look tired,” she said, buckling up.
“So do you.”
She smiled. “Occupational hazard.”
He pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic that felt thicker tonight, heavier. Sirens wailed somewhere far off, then closer, then gone again.
“You shooting all night?” he asked.
“Trying to,” she said. “Some nights the city doesn’t cooperate.”
“Tonight feels loud.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Like it’s remembering something.”
That made his jaw tighten.
They drove in comfortable quiet for a few blocks before Arielle spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”
“You usually do.”
She laughed softly. “Fair. Why do you flinch when I take pictures?”
He glanced at the road, then at the mirror. “I don’t.”
“You do,” she said gently. “Like you’re worried the camera might recognize you.”
He swallowed.
“That’s not how cameras work.”
“No,” she said. “But that’s how guilt does.”
The word hung between them.
Malik felt his chest tighten, the way it always did when he got too close to truth. He could shut this down. Make a joke. Change the subject.
Instead, he said, “Some people don’t want reminders.”
“Of what?”
“Who they used to be.”
Arielle studied his reflection. “You think people can’t change?”
“I think change costs more than most people are willing to pay.”
She didn’t argue. That surprised him.
They stopped at a red light beneath an overpass stained with years of exhaust and graffiti. Arielle lifted her camera, snapping a photo of the shadows stretching across the concrete.
“You ever feel like the city knows your name?” she asked.
He laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah.”
“And it keeps calling it.”
“Every night.”
The light turned green.
They drove farther than usual tonight, through neighborhoods Malik avoided unless he had no choice. Old streets. Old corners. His hands tightened on the wheel, pulse picking up.
Arielle noticed. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“That’s another lie people tell.”
He sighed. “You always this observant?”
“Only when people matter.”
That one hit harder than she probably meant.
They pulled over near a closed basketball court lit by a single broken streetlamp. Malik stopped the car without thinking.
“You wanna take pictures?” he asked.
She looked surprised. “You don’t mind?”
He shrugged. “It’s quiet.”
She stepped out, camera clicking softly as she moved. Malik stayed in the car, watching her through the windshield. She moved with intention, crouching, tilting her head, chasing light where most people saw nothing.
She looked alive.
That scared him.
She returned after a few minutes, cheeks flushed from the cold. “You could be in one,” she said suddenly.
“No.”
“Just a silhouette.”
“No.”
“Malik.”
He met her gaze. “I don’t do pictures.”
She hesitated, then lowered the camera. “Okay.”
But disappointment flickered across her face before she could hide it.
They got back on the road.
“You ever been in love?” she asked out of nowhere.
The question caught him off guard.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you talk like someone who’s lost something.”
He thought of nights that ended in shouting. Of promises made too fast. Of walking away before things got worse.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Once.”
“What happened?”
“I ran.”
She nodded slowly. “Did it help?”
“No.”
She smiled sadly. “Running never does.”
They reached her building again, the familiar brick rising out of the darkness. Malik felt the familiar pull—wanting to linger, needing to leave.
Arielle didn’t open the door right away.
“You know,” she said softly, “I take pictures because I’m afraid I’ll forget things that mattered.”
He looked at her.
“And I think,” she continued, “you avoid them because you’re afraid you won’t.”
Silence filled the car, thick and intimate.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she added. “But I want you to know… I see you trying.”
That was worse than accusation.
She stepped out of the car, then paused. “Come upstairs.”
Malik froze. “What?”
“Not like that,” she said quickly, though her eyes lingered. “Just… talk. I’ve got terrible tea and a couch that sinks in the middle.”
Every instinct in his body screamed no.
But he cut the engine.
Her apartment was small, warm, cluttered with photographs pinned to every wall. Faces, streets, shadows. Lives interrupted and remembered. Malik felt exposed standing there, like he’d stepped into someone’s memory.
She handed him a mug. “Don’t expect miracles.”
He sat on the edge of the couch, tension tight in his shoulders.
“You ever notice,” Arielle said, sitting across from him, “how people open up when they think time is limited?”
He met her gaze. “You think ours is?”
She shrugged. “Everything is.”
The clock on her wall ticked loudly.
Malik stared at his hands. “There are things about me that—”
The sound of shouting outside cut him off.
A man’s voice. Angry. Familiar.
Malik’s blood ran cold.
He moved to the window slowly, peering through the blinds. A figure stood across the street under a broken light, phone pressed to his ear.
Malik recognized him instantly.
His past had found him.
“Malik?” Arielle said quietly. “What’s wrong?”
He stepped back from the window, heart pounding.
“I can’t stay,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust time.”
He grabbed his jacket, already moving toward the door.
“Malik,” she said, standing. “You don’t have to disappear.”
He paused, hand on the knob.
“I do,” he said softly. “That’s the problem.”
He left without looking back.
Outside, the city roared back to life, unforgiving and familiar. Malik drove away fast, knowing something had shifted tonight.
Borrowed time had stopped feeling abstract.
And the clock had started ticking louder.
- Writer
