We Never Said Goodbye
MARK
The morning light slanted through the narrow window of the kitchen, casting soft amber lines across the tiled floor. Mark stood barefoot near the sink, the cold touch of the floor grounding him in the quiet stillness of home. The kettle hissed softly, steam rising in curls like whispers only the morning understood.
He poured the tea into his mother's favorite chipped mug the one with fading blue flowers and took a sip. It wasn't coffee, his usual choice. But when his mother made tea, he drank it without hesitation. It wasn't about preference. It was about presence.
That's just the kind of person Mark was. Gentle where others rushed, steady where others stumbled. A man of routine, but not rigid. Respectful, without expecting anything back.
His phone buzzed twice. He dried his hands on the towel draped over the fridge handle and unlocked the screen.
THEA (@justt_thea)
"Did you sleep?"
A small smile curved on his lips. He sat down at the dining table, the mug still warm in his palms, and typed.
MARK:
"Eventually. Your poetry had me spiraling. In a good way."
THEA:
"That's… oddly flattering. Sorry for the spiral?"
MARK:
"Don't be. I needed it."
And he did.
Something about her writing stirred something he hadn't let move in years. It wasn't about love not yet, maybe not ever. It was about how her words made him feel… known. Like someone had cracked a window open inside him and let the wind pass through places he didn't know needed air.
MARK:
"You write like someone who's seen too much, but still believes in soft things."
He stared at the message after sending it. A little too vulnerable, maybe. But honesty was Mark's nature. He didn't believe in hiding feelings in the name of pride.
THEA:
"I believe in softness because the world can be too sharp. I think people like you help make it bearable."
That line.
He read it again. And again.
He leaned back in the chair, exhaling softly. His eyes wandered to the cluttered shelves in the living room. Books, random souvenirs, a dusty photo frame with a candid picture of him and Liam at some forgotten college fest. The usual. But it felt quieter today.
He stood, walked back to his room. His study desk was a chaos of books and papers, but it was his sanctuary. Entrance prep materials, sticky notes with formulae, pages of medical case studies he kept re-reading just to stay sharp.
He sat down, pretending to focus. But her message stayed with him. Not her beauty he hadn't even thought of that yet. It was her mind. Her voice through the verses. The way she wrote pain like it was a friend and not a wound.
He wasn't used to this kind of softness.
His phone buzzed again. This time:
ARIA 🧃
ARIA:
"Ignore me one more time and I'll post your photos."
MARK:
"How do you even have them??"
ARIA:
"Connections. You've underestimated how chaotic I can be."
He laughed. Aria. Always with the chaos and comfort. Their friendship was still untouched, even after everything. But he hadn't told her about the message last night when her boyfriend had replied instead of her. He didn't want to. Not yet.
She had brought light into his darkness once. Her timing had been unknowingly perfect. But right now… there was something different in his chest. Something that beat louder when Thea texted.
ARIA:
"Still studying? Or just pretending?"
MARK:
"Pretending, professionally."
ARIA:
"You need help. Not academically. Spiritually."
MARK:
"Says the one who used to revise while binge-watching drama."
He smiled at their banter. But beneath it, he felt a tension growing. Not because of her. But because he didn't know how to handle this duality. He wasn't falling for two people he was drifting away from one without meaning to, and slowly being pulled toward someone who had no idea what she was starting inside him.
His phone buzzed again. Thea.
THEA:
"Are you always this poetic, or am I just lucky?"
He hesitated only for a second.
MARK:
"Let's say it's your effect."
He didn't want to say more. Not today. This wasn't a movie. There were no montages or slow background music to guide the heart.
He just knew that her poetry was now a part of his day.
He was falling. Quietly. Slowly.
Not with declarations.
Not with drama.
Just with presence.
And he couldn't tell anyone. Not even himself at least not aloud.