We Never Said Goodbye
"I do. And yet you still surprise me."
Mark stared at the message glowing on his phone screen, a half-smile touching his lips. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as if the right words needed a little silence before they arrived.
Mark:
"Maybe that's because I keep parts of me where even I forget to look."
A pause. Aria was typing. Then it stopped.
Then again.
Then her reply came through:
Aria 🧃:
"Dramatic. But I'll allow it."
Mark:
"A little mystery builds character."
Aria 🧃:
"Or walls."
Mark sighed. She had that uncanny ability to slip under his skin with honesty. He respected it. Relied on it, even.
Mark:
"Sometimes walls aren't meant to keep people out. Sometimes they hold you in place when everything else feels like it's moving too fast."
Aria 🧃:
"That… was unexpectedly poetic."
"Are you okay though?"
He didn't reply right away. He got up, walked to the window. Rain still traced soft lines down the glass, city lights blurred into watercolor.
He typed slowly.
Mark:
> "Yeah. Just… existing louder in my head than out here."
Aria 🧃:
"Classic "
He paused.
He smiled faintly. It was still just Mark to her.
His fingers flew again.
Mark:
"Ever feel like the outside version of you is only 10% of who you really are?"
Aria 🧃:
"All the time."
Mark:
"Like everyone gets the filtered version, and only a few get the whole story."
Aria 🧃:
"Yeah. Except sometimes even I don't know my whole story."
He leaned back in his chair, thumbs tapping gently.
Mark:
"You're writing one though. Every choice, every mess. It's there."
Aria 🧃:
"Yeah but what if the plot's boring?"
Mark:
"Then it's quiet. Not boring. People like us don't shout—we echo."
Aria didn't reply immediately.
In the silence, Mark reached for his sketchpad—something he only touched when he needed his thoughts to come out sideways. He didn't draw people. He drew feelings. Lately, the pages were full of windows. And fog.
His phone buzzed again.
Aria 🧃:
"Echo. That's… haunting. And kinda beautiful."
Mark:
"Thanks. I'll add it to my pretend poetry collection."
Aria 🧃:
"You should. I'd read it."
Mark:
"You'd correct my grammar."
Aria 🧃:
"I'd highlight it in pink glitter pen. Like a true friend."
They kept talking. No subject was too deep or too dumb. From why rainy nights felt like borrowed time, to whether cats had existential crises, to what kind of sandwich their personalities would be.
It was these little things—the ordinary turned sacred by how they were shared.
The clock ticked past midnight.
Aria 🧃:
"I should sleep. I've got a boring class at 8AM."
Mark:
"Want me to text you a quote to wake up to?"
Aria 🧃:
"Yes. Make it tragic and a little pretentious."
Mark:
"Already thinking of something that'll make you roll your eyes."
Aria 🧃:
"Perfect. Night, nerd."
Mark:
"Night, chaos."
He stared at the screen long after the message had been sent. A quiet settled into the room like a familiar blanket.
No butterflies. No sparks.
Just the kind of comfort that let him be exactly who he was—with no performance required.
Mark placed his phone screen-down on the desk and picked up his pencil again.
Tonight, he didn't feel alone.
And maybe that was enough.