The Unsaid

CW: Grief, Depression, Loss

When things went wrong, he was always there to fix it. If there was silence in the company, he always had a joke up his sleeve; if someone was crying, he was always ready with some ridiculous comment that acted as a lifeline for the others. He had a talent that others didn’t have—he could make pain more bearable, turn it into something that could be easily swallowed.

At least that was how it seemed at first glance.

But in reality, things were neither simple nor pretty inside. If he stopped talking, the silence would take over him completely, and in the silence, the exact moment would repeat itself, as if he were condemned to endure this. As if this were his punishment for continuing to breathe.

The evening began promisingly. A gathering of those who are supposedly “just to see each other,” but who turn into a theatre of memories, photos, and laughter. They were housed in a small restaurant with white tablecloths and a light so bright it stung your eyes. People talked about the same things they would talk about anywhere else—about work, about money, and the more risqué things that are not said here.

Even before leaving for the meeting, he stood in the hallway of his flat for a few minutes, looking at the shoes, as if hoping that a pair would say, “Choose me!” He put on his usual trainers, ordered a taxi, and headed out.

As he went down the stairs, he rehearsed his smile; first, he tried the “small” one—the polite and safe one, then the “big one”—the one that made people believe you were okay and everything was fine. Finally, to feel the difference, he showed his true face —the one that only appeared when he was alone—the one that gave the impression of a person tired of everything. He held it for only a few seconds; he was used to hiding it.

In the pocket of his jacket, there was something small, not a talisman, but rather a small object that reminded him that he was still present. A worn key ring, on which even the small, engraved shape no longer resembled anything. She had bought it for him in a souvenir shop while they were on vacation, with the words "This reminds me of you. Pointless-persistent."

As soon as he entered the restaurant's front door, he felt that intense anticipation: “Here it is, now it will get easier.”

“Hey!” someone waved at him. “Finally! Without you, it's like we're at a parent-teacher conference.”

“Don't joke,” he said. “At least there's good coffee at a parent-teacher conference.”

A few people laughed and looked at him gratefully, like children who had gotten a treat for doing their homework.

He sat down at the bar and ordered something without even thinking. Lines were thrown around him, and he nodded when he should have nodded, kept quiet when he should have. This was his second face, the one that said — “I'm fine, I have no problems.” A face that he had polished so expertly that it only appeared at the right moment and disappeared when it was supposed to remain out of the frame.

For the first few minutes, the jokes ran like a train on its tracks. Someone told a story about their boss, and he added a finale of his own. Someone mentioned a diet; he said his only diet was not to eat the people around him. A completely lame joke, but it always worked.

“You haven't changed at all,” one of his friends said, patting him on the shoulder.

It sounded like a sentence to him, “You haven't changed...”, which sometimes means “you're still there.” Back in the past, in the same year and moment that no one wants to talk about anymore.

They sat down at the tables, and the waiters started flying with the wines. Someone started showing pictures from their phone, someone was talking about their new job, and someone was talking about their mortgage. Their life seemed like a motorway with cars flying up and down, but his was more like a car park, cars come and go, but you stand there and save a spot for someone who will never come back.

He continued to do what he did best without pretending - to make people laugh. But after each joke, a little bit of energy went away, just like your phone battery dies a little.

It was time for the desserts, and the waiter quickly set them on the tables. On the plates was something chocolatey, with overly ambitious decorations.

“Oh, this is too beautiful to eat,” someone said.

“Haha, don't worry,” he replied. “I've eaten more beautiful things, like my own words.”

This time, the laughter was much louder; people loved self-irony, and when someone is joking with themselves, it means they are not in danger and are in control of the situation. But he was not convinced of that.

And just as he allowed himself to relax between the giggles, someone tapped their glass with a fork.

"Okay, people," said the woman at the end of the table, already flushed from wine. “Enough of our grumbling, let's keep our tradition and each say a few words.”

Then he felt his stomach tighten abruptly into a ball. And no, it wasn't that he hated speeches, but he knew what was coming next. He understood that people needed these moments when they proved to themselves that they were not just in everyday life; they were real. He understood that, but for him, "being real" had long been associated with risk and pain.

“And...” She smiled and looked at him. “You're the first, you're the best at talking.”

For him, "you're the best at talking" was actually "you're the best at hiding."

“I definitely don’t start,” he said automatically. “I come at the end to cover up what happened before.”

Laughter by inertia from the others, but that didn’t save him either.

“Seriously,” she continued to insist. “Just two or three sentences, no more.”

Sometimes even that's more.

He opened his mouth to make another joke but stopped it on the tip of his tongue. The part of him that had become almost invisible over time said softly, “ENOUGH.”

He reached into his pocket to get his key ring, but remembered it was in the pocket of his jacket, which was in the closet. Instead, he picked up his napkin as if it had a script written on it; he just liked to have something in his hands while he talked.

“Well, okay,” he said, and stood up.

The chairs creaked as everyone settled in, ready to listen. The noise in the restaurant seemed to take a step back. And everyone watched him with bated breath - they didn't want anything profound, but rather something light, which they always got from him, from "the funny one."

He glanced left and right and saw faces he had known for a long time. Some of them had been there then - in those days when people whispered about you so as not to offend you. Others were more recent and knew him as the man with the jokes.

One of his old friends - a man who didn't talk much but said the right things - looked at him with weariness, but the weariness of watching someone pretend to be alive.

“I…” he began.

All the memorized lines and jokes, the endings, and the little safe sentences that get you through anything popped into his head.

“You…” he said with a dry throat. “You think I’m fine.”

Someone laughed awkwardly, wondering if this was the beginning of a joke.

He didn't accept it, and he didn't take offense. The laughter was a reflex he had cultivated in them.

“And I...” he continued. "I've been helping you think that way all along."

At that moment, no one laughed, only the sound of swallowing. His fingers weren't calm when he was saying something real, and his napkin was already torn in his hand.

“I'm not good at this,” he said. “That's why I always make it into jokes, because they're short and convenient, the truth isn't.”

He paused for a long time; there was no music to support him. It was just him and a table full of people who had suddenly stopped expecting entertainment.

“Many years ago, I lost someone close to me,” he said.

Most of them lowered their eyes, and the insistent woman bit her lip, feeling guilty.

He didn’t say the name, simply to avoid turning it into a symbol; it was too personal. It demanded silence and respect, and he was sure he could handle the silence.

“Since then…” he said and stopped.

He remembered a small detail—how she had once bought a nightlight that looked like a cloud, and he had scoffed at it for a few days until he turned it on and saw that the cloud made the light softer—a small thing, but one that would never happen again.

He swallowed hard.

“Since then, all I do is try to look like someone who's moving on,” he said. “And yes, that actually works. It works pretty well to keep the time going and to keep conversations like this going.”

“You all think I’m strong,” he continued. “I just managed to learn not to get in the way of anyone or make you feel uncomfortable.”

And from the side, someone said quietly, “You have no right to think that” but the words flew past him; pain does not obey grammar.

“Do you know what’s funny?” He looked up, almost joking. “I trained you to laugh so you wouldn’t ask.”

This time, there were sad smiles. They understood his confession.

“And no, I'm not looking for pity,” he added. “I don't need pity or drama. I don't need that. I don't want to sound like the bad guy in a movie, giving a monologue at the table.”

Someone laughed softly, but it was the first real laugh since the beginning. Laughter that held the pain in its grip.

“I'm just...” he began, but his fingers clenched tightly. “I'm just tired.”

The word "tired" fell heavily onto the table, and no one tried to pick it up in any way.

“I'm tired of playing a role, I'm tired of pretending to be okay,” he continued quietly. “I'm tired of going home and acting like loneliness is a choice. I'm tired of laughing first so that no one can hear how...” Here, he didn't finish the sentence; he didn't see the point.

He sat down, and nothing happened. There weren’t even any dramatic scoldings, just the moment when the truth stands naked, and everyone decides whether to accept it or not.

The insistent woman put down her glass and reached out to see if he was still here, but pulled away, afraid of crossing the line.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“Don't worry,” he replied, hating himself at the same time.

“Actually, it is,” he corrected himself. “But it’s not your fault. It’s just the way I live.”

His quiet friend leaned toward him.

"When we're done here, come have a drink before you go home," he suggested.

He wasn't pressuring him; he was just saving him from the most dangerous part of the evening, the moment when you're left alone with everything you've kept locked away.

“Okay,” he agreed.

When they left the restaurant, it was cold outside, and a light rain was falling. Someone offered him an umbrella, but he refused; he didn't need it. He hoped the rain would wash away some of what had happened earlier.

A few people walked down the street, each talking about all sorts of trivial things - like how someone bought a new phone and couldn't log into their bank app. But somehow the banality calmed him down.

There was a bar on the corner, and they went in and had a drink. He didn't speak, just listened and turned his glass in his hands.

“If you feel like texting tomorrow… just text me,” his quiet friend said.

When they parted, he stood briefly under the lamp post. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his key ring. He had once believed that if he stopped wearing it, it must mean he had forgotten. Now it occurred to him that the object was not love. Love is what remains, even when you allow yourself to live.

He walked home, but by the longer route. He needed to walk and clear his mind, and he didn’t feel like going home to the silence right away.

When he unlocked and entered his apartment, he was greeted by the usual emptiness. He took off his trainers and sat on the edge of the couch. He took out his phone and opened the chat with his silent friend, and even though he had avoided the first message for years because it always meant “I want it tomorrow,” he wrote, “I'm here.”

Then he added, “I didn’t get to be funny tonight. But I guess it was better this way.”

There was one real thing, and that was that he had spoken the truth out loud, and no one had punished him for it.

A minute or two later, his phone vibrated.

“It was better. It was easy.”

He sat in the chair by the window and watched the rain paint irregular shapes on the glass.

He unlocked his phone, opened his Notes, and scrolled without thinking. He stared at a line from three years ago - something he had written to himself: “It's more painful to need someone you can't be with than to be lonely.”

And for years, he’d chosen loneliness because it hurt less than hope.