pablos

short story about shared silence

Now and again, in moments of weakness, I think about you. It could be the horrendous way you drive, or your begrudging grin after a particularly stupid joke, or even your silent excitement when I finally agree to watch a “cult classic rom-com.” I smile and imagine a future together, but then, reality tethers. These memories are not shared.

I lie in bed, struggling to sleep, so I conjure comforting thoughts. I imagine a perfect partner—my other half—someone who unapologetically steals my carnival cotton candy and snorts when I suggest we practice Bokononism. With you, I thought I’d found her. But these dreams were not shared.

I’d seen you around, but I never approached. Luckily, fate intervened, and we chatted idly over our identical coffee orders. You shocked me. Before we spoke, when I used to fantasize about saying something, I presumed you were the silent, bookish type—the character who, in a movie, would wear thick-rimmed glasses. Instead, you were an unexpected whirlwind. Together, we orchestrated “3 AM McDonald’s raids” and outlandish machinations to deceive shared friends. Yet, through the chaos, we shared earnest dreams. Our desires and tastes seemed to align perfectly. I found this tightrope walk—chaos weighing one end of the balancing stick, authenticity the other—sardonic.

You had me enamored, but I wondered if I was more than a fleeting presence. Was our connection special, as I believed it to be, or was I chopped liver, just another presence you were pleasant to but never truly invested in?

And so, I waited for you to say something. Of course, you never did, so I knew I had to confess. I gave myself until the end of the weekend. If you were silent by then, I would speak out. On Monday, I changed my mind. I was far too lethargic. A confession required gumption. The coming Friday was far more sensible. But on Friday, I had to help my father clean his garage; how could I confess with such trifles sullying my mind? Certainly, it would be better to do so next week. The week passed, then the next week, then the next months. We still talked, but our conversations were undead. We went through the motions, responding or calling when obliged to, but never reaching out just to do so. Perhaps it was an unconscious tribute to a long-lost spark, or a fear of committing some social faux pas.

I don’t recall who stopped talking first, but there was a mutual understanding: even though we never acknowledged it, it was also over. A friendly wave became a furtive glance, and then nothing. In my soul’s soil, I attempted to bury the memories of what could have been, but I found this impossible—how could I blot out fiction? Yes, it’s easy now to say it would have been better to have loved and mourned but instead of moving on, I find myself restless from a mirage, scrolling through texts and old photos, wondering what could have been. The connection we’d shared was circumstantial and the rejection was unsaid, but the silence was shared.