The Echo of the Words Unspoken

Him

It was Sunday. He woke up early—he always did.

His father used to say that a successful man should be prepared for anything.

No mistakes. No delusions. No questions.

And early mornings were part of the routine.

He stood by the window, rain tapping like a metronome.

The wind carried a smell of a storm.

Her favorite weather.

He suffocated the thought before it could settle. And shut the window.

He first saw her at a dinner in memory of one of the firm’s long-passed cofounders: a night of stiff politeness, secondhand stories, and practiced humility. Another chance to exchange cards under the veil of reverence. Another day in his world.

“Sam,” someone called—playfully, but with a hint of indignation.

He didn’t recognize the voice, but it sent chills through him.

“Sam!”

He turned and saw her.

She was being dragged to the piano by his senior partner, Samantha.

The girl protested, but eventually surrendered—and with a deliberately innocent expression, played AC/DC's Highway to Hell.

He rolled his eyes — but couldn’t deny the skill.

Samantha’s face turned pale.

Now, he saw the girl’s eyes, the glint of her sly smile, clearer.

Anything but innocent.

“She must’ve been called a weirdo more than once,” he thought with a bit of annoyance.

“Huh, she doesn’t like to be told what to do,” Nick whispered beside him, laughing and waving to catch her attention.

She gave a shy smile in return.

For some reason, it irritated him even more.

She was an engineer from another department Samantha dragged everywhere.

He liked Samantha. She was sharp. Unshakable. He learned from her a lot when he was just starting as a trainee.

But the girl?

She was clumsy, and loud, and restless, and questioned everything, and he couldn’t stop thinking how one person could possibly contain this many flaws.

But perhaps he overdid it, because soon enough she was the only thing he could think about.

They spent nights talking. She would take him on improvised adventures. They lay on soft grass watching stars.

Once, they went to the seaside, and she was carefully examining a seashell he’d picked.

He studied her face instead.

The rise of her eyebrows. The appraising purse of her lips.

How the sunlight brightened when it reflected in her eyes.

Then her features gradually softened, giving him just enough time to pretend an interest in the sand under his feet, before she could see him.

She looked up and smiled.

The seashell was approved.

Then she pushed him in the water.

She made him stumble through conversations and laugh like he never did before. Out loud. Unacceptable laughs that echoed.

That one time, he even managed to spill the wine all over his shirt. God, how embarrassed he was. And happy—how happy she made him.

He couldn’t remember why he ever thought it was a flaw.

Then his father died.

He left. Took over the family business.

He wanted to keep in touch but got swallowed by rigid condolences from relatives and family friends he’d never seen and would likely never see again—and papers endlessly needing signatures.

Months passed before he returned.

Now she was overwhelming.

She wanted to be closer.

To talk.

She wanted more.

He wanted her to stop intruding in his life, to chill, to give him space.

He couldn’t stand the way she looked at him now—with pity.

He couldn’t breathe. While she obviously was fine without him—maybe even better. She had new friends.

He saw the way Nick looked at her.

But he didn’t want her to leave either.

He had opened up to her.

He cared. Didn’t she see?

He thought she understood him.

Apparently not.

When they finally talked, he deliberately emphasized how he’d be happier without her. That it was for the best. For both of them.

She, who always had something to say against, agreed.

And just left.

Oh well. It was for the best.

She reached out later. He made sure to seem just fine. Thriving.

He was seeing someone else.

Sometimes, he daydreamed about running back to her. He was jealous. But she seemed as happy as if nothing had happened.

Happier.

Without him.

She even got promoted at work.

Still—some nights, he would dream about her calling his name, her laugh, her fingers in his hair.

The way she looked at him before she looked away.

He would wake up in a cold sweat like he was haunted by a ghost—cursing the seeping delusion of the night.

He didn't love her. He didn't.

He kept reminding himself — though who would know why he had to?

He sent her an invitation to his wedding.

He wanted her to know he was happier, too.

Outside, the rain had started. Somewhere, lightning struck. He didn’t flinch.

Her

She stepped into the sunshine. It covered her in its heavy copper, pressing her into the ground until she couldn't quite tell where she ended and the soil began. The morning was like thousands before it: the sun rose in the east, chasing the quiet sleepiness of night far behind the horizon. Yet something was different. She could feel it in the density of the air, the silence of nature, the electricity brushing her skin.

The storm was coming. It was a special day—and a very special storm—she could feel it. Midsummer approached, and the year was turning toward its dusk—a time of change. Did she believe in its magic? Who knows. But she almost fiercely wanted to.

Like many other children, she was dreamy and imaginative. It was especially easy behind her grandfather's old giant closet. No one could ever find her there—except maybe for a spider or two. She would bring her toys and books there, spending the days making up stories and reading tales. Holding her crayons in both hands, she dreamed about drawing a door on the wall that would open the portal to the dwarves' kingdom.

But she also knew that painted doors don't open, and even if they did, they’d lead to the main hallway rather than a magical forest—and, let's be honest, she wasn't excited by the idea of seeing her grandfather's neighbors.

So she grew and lived on this edge of childlike wonder and the grounded reality of life. As an adult, she couldn't help being curious about astrology, mythology, and ancient wisdom but also was never tricked by conspiracy theories or unbelievably compelling shopping offers. She learned piano at an early age and was pulled between the soul craving of art and the practical benefit of accounting, which her family considered a reputable career. So she made what seemed the only reasonable choice: engineering.

And now, standing in the rays of light, she regretted nothing.

Maybe almost nothing.

Then she met him. A sharp and practical investment banker, he was everything she wasn't. And like any other mature adult would, she decided it was destiny.

The destiny didn't last long. Looking back, she couldn’t deny she’d seen the signs — though it’s always easier to predict the future once it becomes the past.

He couldn't find his way to her; she was never taught how to trust.

She didn't cry when they parted.

In fact, she became better. Truly.

She woke up the next morning before sunrise, full of ideas. She went jogging and ran until every muscle in her legs burned. Though there weren't a lot of things she hated more than morning jogs, that day—for some reason—it felt right.

She started working more. Her love for sleep finally disappeared, as did the pull towards art and traveling, which saved her considerable money and time she could now invest in something meaningful—her career. Her mother and colleagues were persistently expressing concerns. But what did they know? She was doing great. She'd never done better.

Now she was looking at the sky as it was getting darker; her music sheets were resting on the top of the well-known closet. She got it with her grandfather’s apartment, luckily without his neighbors. She made her way back inside.

Something felt different this midsummer day.

She kept her notes tucked away in the furthest corner, both hoping to forget and frightened to let go—something she was never brave enough to admit.

But today, today something lured her to that corner, and she found herself standing on the chair, reaching for it.

It was probably the only thing she and her short-lived destiny had in common. Love for her music.

The box was already in her hands when a sudden knock shattered the silence, pulling her out of her memories.

“Neighbors,” she thought.

She actually really loved these new ones. They would spend evenings together talking and drinking tea on their balcony when it was warm and in her kitchen when the temperature outside was dropping. She had moved in while he was away. She remembered looking forward to introducing them.

But now, falling off the chair, she could do nothing but think about the advantages of moving to the desert. She got up, sighed a little while watching her papers and old seashells scattered on the floor. Then moved to the door, carefully maneuvering around them.

It was a post officer.

He handed her the lonely letter with her name on it—and his address.

It was from him.

She knew what it was.

This thought shook her entire body, spun her head, and for the first time, she couldn't convince herself it was fine. She sat and started playing.

With every note, her body tensed, her skin prickled as if touched by a ghost—gently and subtly.

She could feel the fingers tracing her collarbones, spine, and neck.

The past was whispering in her ear with a painfully familiar voice.

The wind was getting stronger, pushing trees to hold on tighter to the sky with their crooked fingers, while her own were flying from note to note. She let herself be consumed by sounds.

Trees kept pushing their knuckles deeper into the silk of the sky until it couldn't handle the pressure any longer—and, ripping apart, it bled on the ground with white, raging lightning.

She closed her eyes.

The room was drowning in the sound of music and thunder, and everything unsaid.

But she followed the music, holding onto its thread with desperate hope to find a way out.

After all of this time, she let herself feel what she was reverently hiding among the lines in the music sheets.

She kept playing.

And when she opened her eyes again, the sky was honey orange. The sun was clean and hypnotizing, and the ghost of the past was finally gone.

Stepping into the sunshine now felt like coming back home.

She opened an envelope—already knowing what was inside—and read:

“Dear Emma W., we request the pleasure of your company at our marriage.”

She let the tears fall down her cheeks.

They

The music faded.

The storm passed.

And the invitation sat on her windowsill—between the broken seashells and a folded music sheet.

Their together was part of a fading memory.

And now, they were looking for their own kind of light.