The Unsaid
There’s always a moment where the truth sits between two people, waiting. This is a small piece about the things left unspoken, the weight they carry, and the versions of ourselves that hold them.
There is one detail I keep leaving out. The part where I threw his unread books against those flimsy New York walls that sounded like cardboard when they hit, the neighbour knocking on our door to check the noise, the cats scrambling across the floor like they already knew how the night would end.