The Conversation That Never Happened

We spoke last night. I think. I don’t know. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was a lie I whispered to myself so many times, it started breathing on its own.

But I remember every word.

---

She was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. I was across from her, shaking. The room was dim, her voice dimmer. But I heard it. Like smoke under the door.

“Why are you always looking at me?”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. The truth was too wild to speak.

“You terrify me,” I wanted to say. “You look like something I’ll never deserve.” “You make the world feel like a room that’s too small.”

But instead I said:

“Because you don’t look away.”

She tilted her head. Something in her moved like water disturbed.

“That’s not true,” she said. “I’ve looked away a thousand times. You just didn’t notice.”

And god! My stomach knotted. I didn’t know if I felt embarrassed or touched or ruined.

---

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

The question sliced. Not because it was sharp. But because it was real. And I panicked.

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Everything,” I meant.

Then I laughed. The kind of laugh that sounds like it’s trying not to cry.

“I want to know if you dream in color,” I said. “I want to know if your name ever tasted bitter in someone’s mouth.” “I want to know if you’ve ever stood still in the mirror too long and scared yourself.”

She stared.

“You talk like you’ve swallowed a diary.”

I smiled like that was a compliment. Because from her, it was.

---

Then she said something strange. Something that has lived in my chest ever since, eating holes.

“You keep staring at me like you want to understand me. But what if I’m not meant to be understood? What if I’m not meant to be held at all?”

I didn’t answer. Because the part of me that speaks had already drowned in the storm of her voice.

“You call it love,” she said. “But it feels like a mirror. Like you’re only looking for pieces of yourself in me.”

That one hurt. But I deserved it.

“Then tell me what it is,” I whispered. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

She leaned in, and her eyes were full of something I couldn’t name.

“You think you love me,” she said. “But you’re starving. You’re not in love. You’re in need.”

---

Then silence. It stretched between us like a mouth waiting to scream.

---

When I woke up, if I ever really slept, there was nothing. No her. No conversation. Just the sound of her voice curling around the edge of my bed like fog. But then I opened my notebook. And on the page I left blank the night before. There it was! A sentence I didn’t remember writing. In handwriting not quite mine:

“You don’t want me. You want to disappear into me.”

I stared at it for so long I forgot how to blink. I tasted blood. Or maybe it was ink.

Was it real?

Did she write it?

Or did some starved part of me crawl out in the night and pretend to be her?

It didn’t matter. It was her now. Because I decided so.

---

I went to see her today. Not to speak. Not yet. But just to confirm she was real. That her skin still held her bones in that same delicate, defiant way. She didn’t look at me. But I swear, when she turned the page of her book ....... She smiled.

And maybe..... just maybe..... she knew what I wrote next.

“If I can’t have you, I’ll haunt you.” “If I can’t hold you, I’ll become the thing that watches from the wall when you sleep.” “If I can’t know you, I’ll turn you into a story so painful it bleeds every time someone reads it.”

---

And so, the conversation we had..... or didn’t have...... will live forever in me. It’s mine now. Even if it never belonged to me. Even if she never speaks again.

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