Chapter 12 — What I Didn’t Say
906 Words
I don’t know what I thought would happen when I asked her out for coffee.
It wasn’t a date. Not really.
I just… wanted to be near her. Outside work. Outside the fire exit. Outside the rules, she kept putting between us.
The café was warm and soft around the edges — exactly the kind of place I thought she’d like. I’d passed by it dozens of times, never stepped in. But that night, it felt right.
When she smiled at the string lights and said, “I’ve passed by this place a hundred times but never went in,” I knew I’d gotten it right.
And when I said “Felt like a Mara kind of place,” and she asked what that meant —
I should’ve lied.
Said something safer.
But instead I told her the truth:
“Warm. Slightly chaotic. But… nice.”
It slipped out. Honest. Unpolished.
Then we talked like we’d known each other longer than we had. Old music. Teachers. The guitar I stopped playing. Her journals. It was nothing special, but it felt different. Like we were building something we hadn’t named yet.
And then she said it.
“I think I like you.”
Just like that.
No drama. No buildup. No chance to prepare.
I felt it before I heard it — that shift in the air. That quiet drop in her voice that said this means something.
I watched her fingers curl tighter around her mug. Saw her eyes flick away from mine.
And my chest —
It did something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Not since…
I didn’t know what to say.
Not because I didn’t feel anything —
But because I did.
Too much.
Too soon.
Too close to the wreckage.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want her.
It was that I didn’t trust myself to be someone worth wanting.
So I told her the truth. The smaller version of it, anyway.
“I don’t know what to say.”
And when she nodded and said, “That’s okay. You don’t have to,” I wanted to reach for her hand. Tell her I saw her. That it mattered. That I liked her, too — maybe more than I should.
But I didn’t.
Because I was afraid.
Because I still smelled the ghost of Selene’s perfume in places she’d never been.
Because I hadn’t stopped dreaming about blood on white silk.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t die — it just gets buried under silence and timing.
So I changed the subject.
Coward.
She smiled at me anyway.
God, that smile. Like she forgave me for everything I hadn’t done yet.
That night, when we parted ways, I walked home in a quiet I didn’t know how to name.
And I thought:
Maybe in another life, I would’ve kissed her then.
Maybe in another version of me, I would’ve said it back.
But this version?
I watched her walk away and did nothing.
And the worst part?
She didn’t expect me to.
Two days later, I stayed late to finish some backend revisions for a campaign we were rushing. Most people had already gone home. The office lights were dimmed, the usual hum of conversation long gone.
I was heading toward the pantry when I heard voices coming from the far side of the floor — by Mara’s corner.
I paused when I heard her name.
“…so, you told him?” That was Isla Mara's bestfriend. Curious. Teasing.
A soft laugh followed. “Kind of. I didn’t mean to. It just… came out.”
Mara.
I froze.
I know I should’ve walked away — should’ve made a sound, let them know I was nearby. But something in her voice made me stop. Not to invade, not to eavesdrop — but because it sounded like she was saying things she never would if I were standing in front of her.
“God,” she went on, “why did I even say it? He looked at me like I handed him a live grenade.”
Isla laughed. “But he didn’t run.”
“No,” Mara said. “He just… didn’t say anything.”
Silence.
And then she added quietly, “He’s not ready. I knew that. I think I just needed to hear myself say it out loud. To prove I could.”
There it was.
The kind of honesty I didn’t deserve.
The kind that shamed me for staying silent when she had been brave.
I turned and walked back to my desk, footsteps quiet.
I didn’t want to hear more.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I did.
Too much.
And the truth was —
If I’d stayed even a second longer,
I think I would’ve gone back.
Told her everything.
Told her I was still healing.
Told her the wreckage inside me wasn’t cleaned up yet.
Told her that when she said she liked me —
I wanted to say I think I do too. But I’m scared to like anyone again.
But I didn’t.
I sat back at my desk, opened a blank message, and stared at her name.
Typed:
You alive?
Then deleted it.
Instead, I closed my laptop, grabbed my bag, and left.
Behind me, the lights in the office hummed.
Quiet. Steady.
Like nothing had changed.
Even though something had.
And I didn’t know if I was strong enough to catch up to it.
- Writer
